


Lost on you

by devilscut



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Stiles Stilinski, Angst, BAMF Stiles, Bottom Peter Hale, Dark Alan Deaton, F/F, Good Peter Hale, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mates, Multi, Polyamory, Scott is a Bad Friend, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles is Pushed Out of the Pack, Surrogacy, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Derek Hale, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Versatile Stiles Stilinski, mentions of mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-06-06 19:45:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15202121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilscut/pseuds/devilscut
Summary: A deadly encounter with an Alpha changes Stiles' life forever - kicked out and betrayed by his best friend and brother, Scott McCall, he leaves Beacon Hills, but much to his surprise not alone.  Ten years down the track, living a life he never dreamed possible, a chance meeting brings back memories of that night - the good and bad mixed with a whole lotta WTF that even now still has him scratching his head as to what happened.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FiccinDylan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiccinDylan/gifts).



> For FiccinDylan (aka stickykeys) who does so much for this fandom. Check out http://fandomcares.tumblr.com/

[Lost on you by LP](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RwQJCCgHtXY)

 

** NOW **

The elevator doors open with a way-too-chirpy ping when they reach the lobby level and Stiles curses vehemently under his breath at his vintage Star Wars backpack as he tugs at the zipper, which has stuck half way after he slipped his security swipe card into the front pocket.  It only adds to the annoyance rippling through him at being interrupted right when he was getting to a really interesting part of the codex he was translating down in the ‘Batcave’ – which is what he calls the secured level below the basement parking garage, because if Bruce Wayne can have one then so can he.  He can barely suppress the sparks that want to fly from his fingertips, the tingle of constant static charge almost painful, his magic greedy and impatient wanting to test out what he’d been reading. 

 

Tugging even harder, Stiles groans loudly when the pocket tears because damn it…that’s half the Death Star hanging off the front now all because he’d forgotten he wasn’t going to use that pocket anymore when it gave him trouble last time zipping it up.  Steadily puffing out a lungful of air, which pushes his lips out in a weird duck-like pout or so his reflection shows in the shiny mirrored elevator doors as he passes between them, he can feel his pissed off irritation easing.  He really did like this one and he could easily ‘bibbidi bobbidi boo’ it back to pristine condition, but it will give Derek the perfect excuse to go on another nerd hunt via online shopping and find one to replace it from a totally different fandom, which is kinda his thing now ever since he bought him the first one – a sleek Ironman backpack with red and gold molding like his body armour – a gift for his first day at Harvard.  His mate loves to spoil him with geeky gifts which Stiles adores because he makes no bones about being a superhero slut, DC or Marvel Universe it doesn’t matter, but more importantly he loves to see the way Derek’s chest puffs out proudly when Stiles so obviously appreciates what he’s found for him.  It’s kinda like the comic-con version of his mate laying a fresh kill at his feet.

 

Rubbing his hand over the back of his neck, there’s a prickling awareness of another magic user nearby.  His wards aren’t flaring in alarm, so not in the building though, out on the street more than likely.  Not a lightweight, enough for Stiles to sense, but compared to the juice Stiles is packing these days he may as well be.  It’s maybe not a coincidence that he can sense them when he has an unknown visitor waiting for him.  It’s not so distracting that he doesn’t stop to appreciate the vast open space of the lobby with its modern industrial vibe of iron stairwells and exposed brick like he usually does.  It’s an echo of the loft that they left behind in Beacon Hills all those years ago - it’s not exactly the same, the staircases to the mezzanine floor above aren’t spirals and it’s brighter with huge multi-paned windows so no gloomy shadows - Peter designed it that way intentionally, not to cause pain, but to remember how far they’ve come. 

 

The framed certificate that Stiles had insisted on displaying on the wall closest to the street entrance catches his eye and immediately irks him.  He wanted it there because he was so proud of Peter, but it annoyed the fuck out of him at the same time because this building really should’ve won the architectural design award for that year and not been just a finalist.  One of Peter’s interns had thought he was doing the right thing by entering his talented but reclusive boss and much as Peter had complained they could all tell that he was secretly pleased and excited by becoming a finalist purely on his modified for public consumption blueprints and scene sketches alone.  When Peter wouldn’t allow photos or a tour by the AIA judges for security reasons he was soon out of the running, the ‘Batcave’ with its defensive wards and containment seals so Stiles’ magic wouldn’t spill out accidentally, was just one of those security reasons. 

 

“Stiles?”

 

Hearing his name called Stiles doesn’t react for a split-second and when it finally registers he snaps back into the here and now instantly because…yeah, there’s no way.  It can’t be.  That voice from the past, surely it’s his mind playing tricks on him, like in the first couple of years after, when he’d automatically turn to say something to his best friend only to remember he wasn’t there and he wasn’t his best friend anymore.

 

“Stiles.”  Scott appears so suddenly, literally out of left field that Stiles can’t help the loud squawking noise he makes and stumbles back, eyeballing his…whatever he is to him now, in his suit and tie.  A suit jacket that Stiles can see doesn’t fit properly on a body that’s bulkier than he remembers, too tight in the shoulders and too loose at the waist and dear God he’s been listening to Peter way too much to know all that or maybe he’s been spoiled by the tailored Armani suits in his own wardrobe.  His other mate is equally as sweet, not that he’s allowed to tell anyone that – reputation and all - and loves to spoil him too.

 

“Sir…is everything alright?”  The receptionist calls out, having risen partially out of her seat.

 

“Yes, it’s okay.  Just an old friend I haven’t seen in a while.  It was a surprise.”  Scott replies, lips stretching wide into his most disarming smile, not noticing that the older woman doesn’t move an inch – her eyes locked with Stiles’ who with the barest of nods lets Marcie know that she can stand down and relax the finger that hovers over the small sigil carved into her desktop to activate the offensive wards.  They’re usually automatic in response to an overt threat, but sometimes direct intervention is needed when the threat isn’t so readily apparent, hence, the mystical panic button. 

 

Stiles had personally warded the entire building and as Scott’s already passed through the defensive ones, at the moment he has no ill-intent.  If that were to change at all Scott would be cast out on his ass pretty damn quick.  He’s also laced the wards with an extra zing that doesn’t compel people to tell the truth exactly, no deep dark secrets would be drawn out if someone really didn’t want to tell, but it certainly makes them more open and communicative and less likely to be deceptive.  So to hear Scott refer to him as an ‘old friend’ feels like a punch to the gut.  

 

Sitting down, Marcie immediately picks up the phone and Stiles is 99.9% positive she’s going to be contacting his left and right hands. His very possessive and over protective second and enforcer and oh boy, won’t that be interesting.

 

“What are you doing here?”  Scott whispers.  A frown deepening the marks of discontent at either side of his mouth, they’re the only change that Stiles can see on the all too familiar boyish face.  “You shouldn’t be here.”

 

Stiles blinks in disbelief.  What the hell?  “Really.  After ten years that’s the first thing you say to me.  What do you mean what am I doing here?  What are you doing here?”  As soon as he asks the question an awful sneaking suspicion stirs in his hindbrain, maybe his visitor isn’t so unknown after all.

 

Scott puffs out his chest and lifts his chin, trying to assume an aura of gravitas, which doesn’t work on Stiles in the slightest considering he’s seen Scott’s drunk 14 year old ass doing the Macarena in his underwear.  “I’ve come to meet the Wolf Mage and offer him an alliance.”

 

Stiles’ mouth drops open in surprise as his lips try to form words that just won’t come and he can feel himself gaping like a goldfish at his former friend.  His backpack slips from his suddenly nerveless fingers to fall at his feet before he’s shoving his hands into his jean pockets to hide the snapping crackle of his power, he forces himself to concentrate and will it back down.  He can only hope that he doesn’t permanently scorch mark the denim like all the other pairs before when he used to have little hiccups with his control, not that he couldn’t afford another designer pair, he just prefers to know that he’s got the reins on his power and not the other way round. 

 

“You what?”  Stiles finally manages, just barely stopping himself from looking around the lobby for the hidden cameras.  Surely he’s being ‘punked’, which would be something Cora would so do to him if it didn’t compromise their security and if she ever did it would never involve the ‘True Idiot’ as she likes to refer to Scott.  However, Scott had presented a sprig of holly to Marcie anonymously on his arrival at reception, the recognised gesture of peace and goodwill between pack Alphas seeking audience with each other in the public domain, meaning this was all too real.  Fuck, he’s an idiot.  Sometimes his spark interfered with electronic equipment, so once he saw the security feed was on the fritz again he should’ve got Marcie to describe who was waiting for him before he left the ‘Batcave’ saving himself from this awkward and unutterably weird encounter.  Too damn cocky, too damn comfortable, he scolds himself for assuming it was an Alpha he’d already had dealings with here.  Peter’s gonna kick his ass big time.

 

“It’s not surprising you’re out of the loop.” Scott says with such condescension that Stiles struggles to hold back from popping him one right on his damned annoying uneven jawline.  God knows what Scott thinks he’s been doing since he last saw him, probably assumed he was going to crawl under a rock and hide away after being cast aside. 

 

“Over the last few years we started to hear about an unknown Alpha on the East coast. Not unusual, we don’t know all the packs that are out there across the country, but the things that this Alpha has done are…well they’re amazing.” 

 

Scott lifts his eyebrows dramatically.  “He’s known as the Wolf Mage – an Alpha werewolf who uses magic.  Do you know how rare that is?  Almost as rare as a True Alpha.”  Stiles has to agree with Scott, although maybe not so reverently, because he’s researched the heck out of it and wolves and magic as strange as it sounds just don’t go together.  They are supernatural creatures no doubt about it, but unlike other types, what they are - their very being, is the magic.  They can’t use or manipulate the energy that magic is, for their own purposes. 

 

Unless they’re something entirely different.  Something that wouldn’t ping on another wolf’s senses.

 

Scott lowers his voice as though sharing a secret.  “They say he’s always in the company of a pair of huge wolves, there’s even whispers his whole pack can fully shift which is simply unheard of…Deaton doesn’t believe it, says Talia Hale was the only full shifter he knows of, but no one knows for sure.  They keep to themselves and are super-secretive.” 

 

“Maybe there’s a reason for that, you know like privacy.”  Stiles bitches and Scott screws his nose up in that familiar way he does when he’s considering new ideas before dismissing his comment and ploughing on.

 

“About 3 years ago Deaton received a tip that he moved his pack to the West coast, it’s taken us that long to find him and it’s here.  So close to Beacon Hills that we never even considered it.  It’s meant to be.  From what little information we’ve been able to gather, we know he’s helped a number of packs negotiate truces with their local Hunter clans and it’s said his knowledge, wisdom and power are unsurpassed.  He has the ear of all the major packs, covens and nests around the world - even the Council of Hunter Families listens when he talks.  What better fit than an alliance between the True Alpha and the Wolf Mage?”  There’s a burning light of righteousness in Scott’s eyes which unsettles Stiles, a fanaticism that could be dangerous.

 

“If this Wolf Mage is all that then why would he want an alliance with you?”  He did think about starting his question with ‘no offense’, but then thought fuck it…be offended Scott, be very offended. 

 

Scott scowls fiercely which after some of the things Stiles has seen since he left Beacon Hills kinda makes him look as threatening as a cocker spaniel puppy.  One that’s in desperate need of a smack across the nose with a rolled up newspaper.  “We have a similar code-“

 

Stiles snorts loudly, choking back slightly hysterical laughter.

 

“Sorry, please go on.”  Stiles waves him on with one hand, the other hiding his mouth because he can’t stop smirking at Scott’s irritated glare.

 

“The Wolf Mage is a recognised symbol of justice in **_my_** world.”  Scott emphasizes and Stiles doesn’t bother to hide the roll of his eyes.  “Combined with my own reputation there would be no stopping us.  A powerful force for good.”

 

Stiles doesn’t know whether to be amused or horrified by the absolute conviction in Scott’s expression.

 

“Which is why you shouldn’t be here, you’ll taint him.”  Scott continues and for all the progress that Stiles has made over the years recovering from that long ago night, which was the single worst and best night of his life, this is a barb that does sting and he can barely hold back a wince.  It still hurts to know that Scott continues to regard him in that way. 

 

There’s a little push against his magical senses, a conduit opening to a familiar power which brushes against his mind affectionately and Stiles recognises the Beacon Hills nemeton, which had been communicating with him fairly consistently since they’d made this city their home.  It maybe thousands of years old, but it's the youngest of its kind and with a child-like desire to help him, it's clumsy and eager as it wraps itself around him in a metaphysical tree hug of protection that Stiles can’t bring himself to turn away, the guilt of leaving it behind when they’d gone to the East coast still too strong. 

 

When its tendrils stretch out curiously to other parts of his mind, Stiles starts to regret that decision.  The lock on his memories is opened and the rush of them is near overwhelming, he can’t stop it, can’t control it.  This isn’t like when he chooses to recall select parts of that evening, it’s everything that happened, every word that was spoken comes back to him with a clarity that feels like he’s reliving every moment.  The good, the bad and the even worse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the night that changes everything for Stiles - it's not about the suffering he endured or what he had to do to survive even though it's part of it, it's all about the relationships that he thought he had and the people that he thought he could trust and the ones he couldn't. How had he gotten it so very wrong?

** THEN **

Shaking.

 

His hands won’t stop shaking.

 

**_“Jesus, Scott.  What the fuck took you so long?  I’ve left so many messages even I’m sick of hearing the sound of my own voice.”_ **

****

**_“Sorry Derek, we were re-grouping after…you know, everything.  But I’m here now.”_ **

****

**_“Re-grouping.  Without your best friend?”_ **

****

They won’t stop shaking no matter how much he wills it or how much he screws his face up in concentration as he examines his hands in minute detail.  His fingers look as though he’s dipped them in paint. 

**_“Look that doesn’t matter.  Shit...he’s been like this since you found him?  Was he bitten?  He’s not like Lydia, Deaton says that if a spark’s bitten it can kill them because they’re not compatible.”_ **

****

**_“He was unconscious when we found him and only came to when we got him back here, so since then.  As for being bitten, you can see the bloodstains, but we can’t find any wounds on him – none at all and that’s too soon to recover from a bite.  Still, there’s something…something about him, I don’t know Scott, he smells like a wolf and he doesn’t, his scent it-”_ **

****

It reminds him of when he was really, really young and finger painting was the highlight of his nursery school day.  His Mom had proudly stuck his paintings of swirling indeterminate blobs of colour on the fridge door with his favourite Batman magnet each week - _‘so everyone can see how beautiful they are’_ she would say.  It’s a happy memory.  A good one.  This…this he’s not sure what the fuck **_this_** is, but he doesn’t think ‘happy’ or anything remotely like it is an option on his check list of ‘what fuckedupness is this now?’.

 

**_“It’s different?  That’s weird.”_ **

****

It’s not wet.  It’s dried out completely, a coating that cracks with every movement and when he rubs his forefinger with his thumb the rust coloured flakes brush off and flutter to the floor.  There’s black stuff trapped beneath his nails that he really, really doesn’t want to know what it is or where it’s come from.

 

**_“I was going to say it’s always been good, really good, but this is even…look whatever, it doesn’t matter. He’s in shock I was hoping he’d calm down when you got here.  Peter tried to get him to lay down, but he won’t, he just stands there.  He won’t look at us, won’t talk and God knows that’s not Stiles.”_ **

****

**_“He may not be talking to us Derek, but I think he’s still listening.  Whatever’s going on with Stiles it’s more than shock and I don’t think McCall being here will make a difference.  We’ll just have to wait it out and hope Stiles comes back to us on his own.”_ **

 

It’s not drugs or hunger or even his ADHD that makes his body vibrate as though he’s going to explode.  The tremors aren’t from fear, not now anyway, although he suspects the lingering traces of panic and anxiety that keeps him hyper-fixated on his hands has its origin in something his mind won’t let him recall.  He has a sneaking suspicion that it’s something he should be grateful for. The jittering tension that rattles his bones and clicks his teeth together like frenzied castanets is like nothing he’s ever felt before.

 

**_“STILES.  STILES.  Come on man, snap out of it.”_ **

****

**_“Please, for the sake of all our ears, stop with the yelling.  It doesn’t matter how loud you are Stiles is not answering, not even for you.  At least not until he’s good and ready.”_ **

****

**_“What do you care Cora?  I don’t know why you’re here, you don’t even like him.”_ **

****

**_“Jeez, did your brain go on a permanent leave of absence when you became a shiny new Alpha…I live here.  As for that other crap, aside from the fact he saved my fucking life, I’m a Hale - of course I like him, he fits us, just ask the rest of the family.  He’s smart, sarcastic, cute as hell and so loyal it hurts to see it wasted.”_ **

****

**_“What the hell does that mean?”_ **

****

**_“Figure it out Alpha Boy.”_ **

 

Closing his eyes, he looks inward, beyond rational thought to the instincts of his hindbrain which recognises the presence of something wild and hungry and demanding within him.  An invading primal force of nature, turning him inside out as it searches for somewhere to stake its claim, to mark its territory with metaphysical teeth and claws wanting to alter his very being, both physically and mentally and shape him into something both man and beast at once. 

 

He can feel the brush of its fur against his insides and he shivers, stomach churning.  That touch tells him it’s a power that’s old, so very old.  From a time when man hid from the dark in caves around their fires, away from the moonlight, and originating in ancient forests that no longer exist.  It’s passed through many generations, not always of the same family line – sometimes taken violently and other times it chooses for itself when it finds those with the strength and will to carry it, and he can feel the mark of each individual that held it like a fingerprint. 

 

The most recent one is stained, a blight born of violence and betrayal - filled with malevolence, greed and so dangerously egocentric it makes him feel sick because he can see it didn’t start that way.  It’s been shaped into something that denies its core imperative, to lead and protect.

 

His heart races, a deep booming base drum in his chest, the rhythm of it echoing big and loud in his ears – deafening him as another sensation rises within him.  One he recognises from what feels such a long ago night of kanimas, raves and a never-ending line of mountain ash.  An opposing source of power has been stirred awake from the fog of dormancy it’s somehow been smothered by, surging to vibrant life.  He’d given up hope of ever feeling it again, near enough convinced it had been a one off miracle – a fluke. 

 

Snapping and crackling hungrily from the very core of him in response to the invasion, it’s the smallest of sparks, but rapidly swelling and growing to its full potential and beyond until it’s a storm front of lightning racing through every synapse and nerve ending rushing to meet the other, drawing it closer to cleanse it of the stain that is the very antithesis of what it should be.  It’s a struggle to think clearly when his body feels like a war zone.  Dimly, he realises that it’s his natural defences reacting to something foreign within him, like antibodies fighting an infection in his physical body, only these antibodies and this infection are of the supernatural kind.  He just doesn’t know which is going to win out. 

 

**_“JESUS, PETER HE’S SEIZING.  WHAT DO WE DO?”_ **

****

**_“NO DEREK.  STOP.  DON’T TOUCH HIM.”_ **

****

The clash of it rocks him on his heels, has him swaying with every push and pull, it’s like trying to force two magnets together.  The opposing forces lurch and buck wildly, his body a fragile shell barely containing the battle within, but that stain is a cancer that will grow and feed unchecked if he lets it.  The wrongness of it makes him want to puke, his skin crawling knowing it’s inside him, and there’s no way he can tolerate that.  His throat closes up tight and he hopes to God it's not a sign that he's soon going to be vomiting up black tar.  So he strains and pushes until he’s generating so much of the crackling bursts of lightning that are firing through his veins that he feels like he’s leaking with it and when he doesn’t think he can, he pushes some more until the stain is finally obliterated.  Power surges through him, washing him clean.  Pure and limitless.  It’s intoxicating.

****

**_“What the hell’s going on?  Look at his hands, are those sparks?…oh my God, something’s electrocuting him…Scott, we need to do something, help me move him.”_ **

****

**_“NO.  Ally stay back.”_ **

****

**_“He’s not being electrocuted, it’s something else.  Rest assured Allison dear, he’s not going to die, not today anyway and not in the company of an Argent if I have anything to say about it.”_ **

****

**_“Don’t you talk to her, ever.  You don’t know everything Peter.  You don’t even know what’s happening to him do you, so how can you know that?”_ **

****

**_“Now is that anyway to talk to an ally, McCall - what has Deaton been teaching you?  As for Stiles, what I do know is that we found him at the nemeton and not just a stump either, but a full grown tree.  What I do know is that he’s alive and the Alpha that attacked him is dead.  What I do know is he’s not going to die, because Lydia’s here and she’s not screaming.  So explain to me Scott, for all the things I know can you tell me why he called us for help and not you.”_ **

 

It takes him a moment to realise the stain is actually gone and while what remains no longer pushes him away, it doesn’t draw him close either.  Wary and watchful, it feels sentient.  Like it’s rummaging through the kitchen junk drawer of his mind, searching through and pulling things out at random – memories, feelings, values - everything that makes him who he is.  Sometimes he wonders who that really is.  The sensation of being weighed and judged is so very strong, but he’s simply too exhausted to care.  

 

He chokes out a sob of relief when it eventually reaches out in acceptance and what almost feels like gratitude.  Out of nowhere he hears the howl of a wolf, it makes his ears ring at what he would usually perceive as a mournful sound, but somehow Stiles can hear the joy in its voice as it calls to pack. 

 

**_“Peter, did you hear that?”_ **

****

**_“Yes.”_ **

****

**_“Cora?”_ **

****

**_“Yes, yes…I heard it too.  What is that?  Where’s it coming from Derek?”_ **

****

**_“Hear what?  What are you guys talking about?”_ **

****

**_“How am I not surprised that you can’t McCall?”_ **

 

With a rush, what’s always been a part of him and what’s not starts to twine and blend together, coiling and wrapping around each other with sinuous grace.  A weaving of energies that feels like it lasts forever until it’s merged completely and all of it is part of him, all of it ** _is_** him, leaving him stripped raw and bleeding internally.  That isn’t an exaggeration he realises, opening bleary eyes and seeing the smear of fresh blood on his knuckle after swiping at the fluid he can feel seeping from his nose onto his top lip.  It leaves a thick coating of sticky copper.  Grimacing, his tongue flickers over the upper bow, the too-rich too-metallic flavour of it so overwhelming it makes him want to gag.  Somehow he doesn’t.

 

The rush of all his senses, heightened to unbearable levels, has him squinting to filter the overhead artificial lights and holding his breath to stop the searing pain of too many smells from burning the overly sensitive tissues of his nose and throat.  Some of them dizzy and seduce him with how good and right they are and he wants to smush his face into whatever’s producing that spicy musk and just breathe while others…he retches and gags at the disgusting assault of wrong, wrong, wrong. 

 

Ears ringing, he claps his hands over them trying to protect them from the cacophony of sound that’s too noisy, too loud to bear.  Above the thrumming multitude of drumbeats that surround him he can hear the rustle of leaves from the trees outside, the pitch of it somehow more painful than anything as his hearing stretches and heightens to levels beyond human ability.  Wailing, he hunches over rocking back and forth.  Stop it, stop it he begs, not sure if he’s saying it aloud or not.  Has to wrench himself away from hands that he recognises are being gentle and yet feel as though they’re flaying his skin from his very flesh and bones with their touch.

 

**_“Sshh.  It’s okay Stiles.  You’re okay.”_ **

****

**_“We’ve got you.”_ **

 

A wave of warmth washes over him.  An empathic surge of such concern and caring that it makes his eyes sting.  He doesn’t try to understand how or why he can feel it, not even from who.  He just soaks it up, letting it give him the strength to uncurl and straighten his twisted body until he can stand upright once more.  Eyes open, but not seeing beyond dark shapes and figures moving around him he licks dry and cracked lips as his senses slowly ratchet down to something more bearable.

 

**_“What happened to you?  What did you do, Stiles?...What did you do?”_ **

****

What did he do?  Is he serious, what did ** _he_** do?  What he had to of course.  Goes to say that aloud, but all that comes out is a hiccupping breath, so incongruous that his lips twitch uncontrollably.

 

**_“He survived McCall and did what you should’ve had the balls to do as Alpha.”_ **

****

**_“Shut up, don’t you dare talk to me about what it takes to be an Alpha, not after everything you’ve done.  Look Derek, surely you can’t agree with this.  I’m glad Stiles is alive, but what he’s done is wrong…it’s against everything we believe in.”_ **

****

**_“No, it’s what you believe in, Scott.  Peter’s right.  I shouldn’t have listened to you, that whole talk of second chances and redemption was aimed at me wasn’t it, to get me to agree and back you up? Did Deaton tell you what to say, how to push my buttons? You made a pitch straight for my weak spots and I fell for it and went against my instincts, we let him go and look at where we are now, Stiles is paying the price for it.”_ **

 

**_“You don’t mean that.  He killed someone.”_ **

****

**_“I do, because whatever happened to him was bad…really bad and it’s our fault.  He’s ripe with fear and pain, so before you judge him Scott, just look at him.  He’s practically catatonic and covered in blood, most of which is his.”_ **

****

**_“It is?”_ **

****

**_“Oh dear God.  If I ever go back in time I will slap myself silly for biting you Scott McCall.  Are you seriously telling me that you can’t tell your best friend’s blood scent?  What am I saying, of course not, you wouldn’t know any of our scents would you?  You wouldn’t be able to track our scents if your life depended on it or worse, if ours did.”_ **

****

**_“Yes…no…I mean maybe.  What of it?  Fuck, stop laughing Stiles…this isn’t funny.”_ **

 

Was he laughing?  Maybe…he feels the strained giggle that bubbles from his lips over and over fade away.

 

 ** _Stiles._**   Who?  **_Stiles._**   Is that…?  **_Stiles._**   His name?  Yes…yes that’s right.  That’s his name.  That’s who he is.  Or is it – the thought leaves him strangely shaken.

 

Stiles sucks in a ragged breath and then another and then another.  Awareness of his surroundings slowly begins to filter into his mind and senses.  Awareness and the return of more immediate memories.  Memories of blazing red eyes, hot breath on his face and white teeth in a razor sharp smile dangerously near his throat.  Of the heavy weight of another body on top of his.  Heavy and strong.  So strong.  Pinning him down.  Stronger than he can fight off. 

 

There’s the echo of a voice at his ear with a British accent that surely belongs on stage performing MacBeth or Richard III and not here in Beacon Hills telling him what he’s going to do to him in gory detail as his claws prick into the tender skin of his neck.  The chilling realisation that the wolf wasn’t even out of breath after subduing him while Stiles is left trembling and panting, exhausted.  The gun with wolfsbane bullets tantalisingly just out of reach where it had been carelessly thrown aside.  He’d thought nothing could be worse than feeling teeth tearing into his flesh and claws slicing his body wide open, the pain so excruciating that it’s almost transcendent, but there is.  It’s when he tells Stiles what he’s going to do after, but not to him…not to him.

 

The fear and rage that had overtaken him then threatens to overwhelm him once more, but it’s ten times, a hundred times greater.  A violent lick of lava runs through his veins wanting to burst out, to erupt and destroy, levelling everything and everyone within range that he perceives as a threat to himself and those under his protection.  There’s a knowing that comes with the rage, one that tells him that he could do it all too easily and no one could stop him.  No man or wolf.

 

What scares him is that it feels so raw and untamed that he could possibly hurt the very people he wants to protect so desperately.

 

Stiles swallows and swallows again.  Chokes on the power that’s trying to claw its way out of his throat and with a self-control that all the doctors he’s seen over the years regarding his ADHD had always doubted that he would ever possess, he draws it back into himself.  Pushes it beyond tissue and organs, past the very bone and marrow of his body even the cells and atoms that give him life and he anchors it so far deep within himself that if he was inclined to believe in such things he would call it the essence of who he is, his soul. 

 

It’s there that he feels a deep-seated shift, an internal click so that whatever this is that he’s absorbed is now finally locked into place.  No longer an opposing force, the two have come together like jigsaw pieces from different puzzles that unexpectedly fit.  The little match strike of his spark now brighter than a thousand suns and with that radiance comes a calm he’s never experienced before, one that soothes a wildness within him that is entirely new.

 

“Not funny you say…actually Scotty, I rather think it is.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles sees the pack in a different light and the confrontation he'd been expecting and dreading is finally here.

** THEN **

Stiles lifts his gaze from his now rock-steady hands and surveys the rest of the pack that are scattered throughout the loft space.  Even with the dim lighting from the bare globes and the press of twilight against the huge windows behind him, he’s surprised that he can see their faces so clearly and in an instant he’s catalogued and assessed the threat level of all the loft’s occupants with a speed that’s slightly frightening, but maybe kinda awesome too.  Okay, definitely awesome in a weird why-the-hell-do-I-even–need-to-do-this sort of way.

 

Only a few feet away, Peter and Derek stand shoulder to shoulder observing and he gets the feeling that they’ve done their own assessment of the small group in front of them much as he has.  There’s something about the two men that’s drawn his eye from his very first encounter with each of them, more than their good looks which he’s reluctantly honest enough with himself to recognise.  It’s a fascination beyond them being the first supernatural beings that he’s met, it’s one that compels him to seek them out, that makes him hungry to discover as much about them as he can.  He can’t explain it, can only hide that need behind a snarky, sarcastic façade and hope that it fools them more than it does himself. 

 

As they move apart, Stiles’ breath catches when he sees for the briefest of moments their fingertips brush together in a slow glide that screams of intimacy as they try to touch for as long as they can, skin on skin.  From their position he’s pretty sure no one else can see, but when he meets their eyes they hold his gaze steadily and he can tell that they’re aware of what he saw and he releases that held breath slowly, conscious of the heat that rises to his cheeks at the undeniable eroticism of it. 

 

Despite their size and the palpable aura of danger that surrounds them, Peter and Derek move stealthily within the huge floor space.  Circling around in a loose-hipped prowl and with a predatory roll of their heads from shoulder to shoulder, they mirror each other until they are in flanking positions of Scott’s little group who are so blindingly unaware that he wants to howl his disapproval. 

 

Stiles hisses through his front teeth as he realises the two wolves are now in striking distance of basically everyone.  They watch him with an almost feral intensity that normally he would find both intimidating and scary as hell, but for some reason, today he can’t find fault in it.  Almost takes comfort in their alert watchfulness which in no way should he take to being on his behalf in a favourable manner, but something instinctive tells him he can.  

 

Nodding in approval, he’s surprised when they flash their wolf eyes back at him in response.  He wonders if he'll ever get used to Derek's eyes no longer glowing red with the power of an Alpha.  Still, there’s a curious pleasure and satisfaction that swells deep in his chest at seeing the pair of electric blue eyes glow so brightly at him…for him, a recognition of something undetermined tentatively being offered on both their parts.  

 

Strangely reassured, Stiles turns his focus onto possibly the next most dangerous person in the loft, the Huntress.  Allison is doing her darnedest to live up to that old country song cliche and standing by her man…or wolf, whatever, her beautiful face set determinedly to neutral and he can see the shadow of Victoria in that expression. 

 

She doesn’t have her bow with her, but he suspects that the number of blades she carries tucked away in her boots, up her jacket sleeves and at the waistband of her jeans would be more than he can count on one hand.  She is truly formidable now, so unlike the girl she was when she first came to Beacon Hills and Stiles feels for that girl, feels for her deeply and the way she had her eyes opened to the world with blood and violence and tears.  

 

That Scott and Allison have reconciled, yet again, isn’t surprising, that they’ve gained a third **_is_**.  Isaac is the fly in his soup, the itching powder in his jock, the screech of nails down the chalkboard in his ears and every other irritation that Stiles can conceive of.  What he can’t deny is that Isaac seems to be committed to Scott as much as Stiles has ever been, a handy-dandy BFF replacement that he wants to strangle with his own scarf. 

 

Isaac hovers slightly behind Scott and Allison, helplessly drawn into their orbit to follow where they lead.  The adoring pining looks he sends in their direction in between casting disdainful ones at Stiles didn’t appear to be for one over the other.  No wonder he’s a confused snarky little puppy, from what Stiles can tell he didn’t even seem to be aware he was doing it.

 

Lydia stands at the bottom of the steps, posed perfectly, with one foot in front of the other.  A pinup girl for all the major European Fashion houses in her delicate floral patterned dress and strappy little heels that make his feet hurt just to see them.  Everything she is, is a challenge to those who don’t know better, beautiful and so very feminine with a spine of steel.  He doesn’t know if it’s her human nature or her banshee side that keeps her skirting the fringes of the pack, allowing her to push in and pull away as she needs, but he suspects Jeff Martin’s abandonment of Lydia and her Mom has a lot to do with it. 

 

She’d been his lodestar at one point, though with time and familiarity not anymore, but he can still appreciate the cool pillar of flame she is – analytical intelligence that she wields like a scalpel complemented by a fiery passionate nature.  The bored expression she wears doesn’t fool him for an instant.  He knows that she’s deciding which way to jump.  Not that he would expect any less, because as always, Lydia Martin will do exactly what she wants to.

 

Bringing up the rear is Cora.  For someone who’d been so close to death she looks excessively healthy and strong.  As beautiful and deadly as all the Hales are, she stands on the top step that leads to the entrance area of the loft, giving herself the higher ground.  One shitkicker boot tapping impatiently.  He wonders idly if it’s a Hale family requirement to wear the same uniform of tight jeans that mould to perfect asses and thighs and close fitted shirts that show off sculpted arms and torsos and in Cora’s case, delightfully round and firm boobs.  

 

The flash of pure gold is dazzling when their eyes meet and Stiles’ lips twitch in amusement at the ‘wassup?’ lift of her chin she gives in acknowledgement.  She’s not as hungry-looking as her brother and uncle, but there’s still an intensity to the way she watches him.  Every now and then her gaze drifts towards Lydia and her expression changes, bafflement making it softer and more thoughtful, as she watches the banshee without her knowledge.

 

He can barely look at Scott.  Remembering why he’s so pissed off with him and yet it’s so damn twisted because it’s still not right to see him frowning like he is now and with such deep furrows at the bridge of his nose instead of his sweet smile and open regard.  Scott’s been his friend for what feels like forever, been such a huge part of his life that it would be some kind of Bizarro world like in the Superman comics they would devour when they were kids if he wasn’t, like it would be inherently wrong or backwards.  He’d always thought Scott felt the same way about him too. 

 

Lately, he’s starting to think maybe he’s been wrong about a lot of things. 

 

Not counting fighting to stay alive there doesn’t seem to be enough hours in the day for Scott to be able to squeeze him in, not even just a little bit of bro time.  Between school, Scott’s job, lacrosse training, Allison and his wannabe-best-friend, Isaac - there’s not even a place for him at lunch with Allison on one side of Scott and Isaac on the other - something’s had to give and it’s looking a lot like that something is Stiles. 

 

Which he kinda gets, particularly now that Scott’s wolfy side has gotten the upgrade, but it still hurts when the texts he sends receive the barest of answers or no reply at all and his phone calls ring out.  He tries to ignore the little voice in his head that whispers this had started well before this whole shit-fest with the Alpha Pack.  Maybe even beyond to a suburban basement where the distinctive thud of fists hitting flesh and bone is somehow worse than remembering the actual pain.  Nothing is worse though than realising that nobody had been coming for him.

 

That moment of instantaneous assessment passes and he no longer has all the time in the world, he’s back in real time listening to Scott’s huff of indignation.

 

“You think killing someone is funny?”  If it wasn’t in epically bad taste, the contorted incredulous look on Scott’s face almost makes him start to snicker all over again.  “We gave him safe passage to leave Stiles, I gave him my word.”

 

“Exactly. ** _YOUR_** word.  Not mine, not any of ours.  You didn’t think to have one tiny conversation with the rest of us, get our opinion on giving safe passage to someone who’s been fucking trying to kill us as recently as 48 hours ago.”  Stiles can feel the anger at his friend simmering in his gut, it’s not the uncontrollable rage of before so he welcomes it as an appropriate reaction to Scott’s betrayal.  Again.  

 

He’s starting to see a pattern with Scott that leaves such a bad taste in his mouth he wants to spit, especially when he thinks about his secret machinations that led to watching his brother walk away with the enemy or the way he fucked over Derek and forced him to bite Gerard Argent.  There is not enough mouthwash in the whole world that could get rid of the bitterness of that action and seriously, wrinkly old man skin in your mouth…eww. 

 

“I didn’t need to, I’m the Alpha.  I make the hard calls.”  Scott says sternly, folding his arms across his chest. 

 

“Hard calls!  Jesus fucking Christ Scott, what was the hard call in this?  You let this murdering son of a bitch go or did you forget all the people he took out to become some all-powerful uber Alpha?  Did you forget Erica and Boyd?  Did you forget what he wanted Derek to do, to join his little pack of psychopaths?”  Stiles clenches his fists tighter when his fingertips start to tingle, it feels like a massive static charge building.  He’s not sure if it’s his imagination or simply tension, but it feels like the atmosphere crackles around him. 

 

“Damn it Scott, you gave safe passage to Deucalion.  A Deucalion with 20/20 vision.  Really?  Really?  What on earth made you think that was a good idea?”

 

“He needed the chance to make things right.  To balance out all the bad he’d done with some good.”

 

Stiles groans long and loud at Scott’s passionate declaration.  “Damn it, Scott.  Right there…right there I can see your lips moving and I’m hearing Deaton talking and the words are coming out of your fucking mouth like some sort of ventriloquist’s dummy.”

 

Scott shakes his head dismissively, mouth tight at the insult.  “I don’t expect you to understand, you’re not a wolf, you’re not pack so you don’t get that there are forces at work that are not human and don’t react in ways a human would.  Deaton does.  I know you don’t like him, but he knows about these things.”

 

“Idiot.”  Who Peter’s directing that scathing comment at isn’t clear as he seemingly manages to roll his eyes at everyone within range.

 

“Stiles.”  Derek says his name cautiously, as though aware that he’s on the verge of shattering apart.

 

Stiles can only stare at his best friend, his brother, aware that his stomach has plummeted sickeningly way down past his feet to the basement of the building.  Every fear, every doubt that had crossed his mind over recent times and maybe if he’s honest with himself beyond that has just been condescendingly shoved right in front of his face and like a naughty puppy he’s had his nose rubbed in it.  Hard. 

 

He’s not pack.  He doesn’t belong.  He’s not pack.

 

“What?”  He finally manages to croak out.  Dimly aware that there’s a low rumbling echoing around the loft.  A trio of echoes, not of distant thunder as he’d first thought, but pissed off wolves.  It’s coming from Cora, Peter and Derek who have partially shifted and are balanced on their toes, muscles twitching, ready to pounce.  Not on him though, their gazes are fixed on Scott who seems oblivious to the rising tension or just doesn’t care, overly confident in his newly red eyes.  Stiles doesn’t even think twice about shaking his head, denying the Hale wolves their prey, it’s instinct…pure instinct and that they settle back onto their heels and look to him almost expectantly is a surprise and not, all at the same time.

 

“Look Stiles, I know you want to help and it’s great you’ve been researching the supernatural stuff, but seriously Deaton’s a Druid and while you maybe a spark you’re essentially human.  I mean it’s pretty cool that you can do that trick with the mountain ash, but I need someone with real power and knowledge who knows what he’s talking about as an advisor.”  Scott unfolds his arms, body still stiff with disapproval and transparent disappointment.  “What I don’t need around me is someone who thinks that killing is the answer to everything.”

 

“Well letting them walk away isn’t either.”  Stiles snaps out struggling not to show how hurt he is.  Holding his arms out to either side letting his badly torn and bloodstained shirt be seen clearly.  “Look at me Scott.  What do you see?” 

 

“A murderer.”  Scott hisses at him instantly and the words are filled with such certainty and disdain that Stiles staggers and an ache forms in his chest so sharp and piercing he wonders for a moment if he’s having a heart attack.  Derek and Peter are suddenly there on either side of him, hands firm but gentle as they support him and let him lean on their strength. 

 

Maybe Scott’s feeling it too he thinks, when he sees the other boy grimace and rub his hand over his chest before shrugging it off.

 

“It’s okay Stiles.  You’re okay.”  Derek dips his head towards Stiles’ and he can feel the wolf’s breath against the rim of his ear, warm and moist, as he repeats it over and over, in a tone so calm and certain that he's never heard from the other man before, it soothes Stiles almost against his will.  Peter’s looped one arm around his waist, his hand resting on Stiles’ hip.  His thumb brushing up and under the hem of his shirt and the skin on skin contact feels good.  A part of him wonders at the ease with which he’s comforted by the wolves and another is grateful, so very grateful, because it feels like they’ve made the ground beneath his feet solid once again after Scott had yanked it away. 

 

He’s always known that Scott’s filled with ideals and morals that Stiles has no hope in hell of ever attaining himself, if he even wanted them.  In his mind, he’d actually thought they’d balanced each other out pretty well with his practical cynicism and eye for an eye philosophy.  Right now, Scott feels so very far away even though he’s right there in front of him, but the closeness he’s always felt to the other boy is muted and Stiles struggles not to break down because whatever the outcome of tonight it will never be the same. 

 

“You foolish, foolish boy.”  Peter snarls and if the pissed off look he’s giving Scott hasn’t made his ball sack shrivel up, then Stiles wholeheartedly agrees with Peter’s frequent declaration that Scott is nigh on too stupid to live.  “He’s the heart of your pack.  You owe him your thanks not your condemnation.”

 

“Scott.”  Allison breathes his name in dismay as she clutches at Scott’s arm, worry and doubt twisting her pretty features almost unrecognisably, eyes huge and round as they briefly meet Stiles’ before darting away guiltily.  Well, looks like that’s about the limit of the support he’s going to get from that corner.  He’s disappointed because he considers her a friend, but he’s not surprised that she doesn’t want to remind Scott way up there on his high-horse that she’s been damn close to the edge of killing someone…quite a few of them actually in more recent times.

 

“I followed Deucalion after you let him go Scott, I needed to make sure he was leaving.  The blood on this shirt, Derek and Peter are right, it’s mine.”  Stiles lifts the untucked tail of his shirt that’s stiff with dried blood, fingers trembling slightly, squinting as he tries to follow the plaid pattern where it completely disappears under the dark stain.  He wonders why he’s so reluctant to let his supposed friend, who he’d once shared everything with, know that after a heck of a lot of research he was able to use a self-taught tracking spell on Deucalion to follow him.  It was one that he'd been working on for the pack ever since they'd not been able to find Erica and Boyd after they were taken and he'd promised himself that would never happen again. 

 

Derek whines next to him and Stiles is unable to resist from giving the partially shifted wolf a comforting pat on the arm.  “It’s from when I followed Deucalion to the woods behind your house where he was waiting for your Mom to get home.”

 

“What?”  Scott’s righteousness falters momentarily.  “No.”  He shakes his head, then shakes it again.  “No. He must’ve needed to see me before he left and you went and killed him.”

 

“Listen to my heartbeat Scott.”  Stiles insists, before enunciating every word clearly.  “He was waiting for your Mom to get home so he could tear her to pieces as a parting gift for you to find.  I know because he told me in excruciating detail as he cut his name into my skin and do you know how many letters there are in ‘Deucalion’?  A lot Scott, a hell of a lot.”  Stiles presses a hand to his belly, never so glad in his life to not feel his intestines poking out, and shrugs helplessly at Peter as his face darkens like he can picture it all too clearly.  Maybe he can, maybe possessing claws like that you know exactly what they’re capable of. 

 

“I was resigned to it you know.  To dying.  Thought it would be quick with my throat torn out…asphyxiate, bleed out and that’s all folks.”  Closing his eyes, the memory of pain and fear as Deucalion’s razor sharp claws started to puncture his flesh seeking a firm hold to yank and pull his trachea out is as clear and real as the moment itself.  “And then he started to tell me what he had planned for my Dad.”

 

Breathing through his nose, he blinks rapidly, sickened at the recollection.  Lydia presses a trembling hand to her mouth, eyes huge and unblinking.  Allison has the distinct greenish cast of someone who’s about to toss their cookies all over their shoes.  Scott shifts agitatedly, shaking his head in denial, hands opening and closing into fists – over and over.

 

“Bullshit.”  Isaac breaks the horrified silence, his lips curled into a sneer so tight and sharp that it looks painful.  “There’s not a mark on you.”

 

Stiles doesn’t say a word, simply stares down the cocky Beta with the full force of his displeasure until Isaac looks away exposing his throat, shoulders hunching down to make himself look smaller.  A rush of satisfaction flows through him mitigated by the bewilderment he feels at the way Scott ignores his obviously distressed pack mate.  ‘Ignores’ is possibly the wrong word Stiles thinks, ‘unaware’ is probably more accurate.  Scott seems totally unaware that his pack mate needs his Alpha.  Needs the comfort and reassurance that only the Alpha can give.  After everything they’ve been through, how can he still be so blind to the needs of the wolf **_and_** the needs of this boy with his history?  Everything inside Stiles is screaming at the wrongness of it, much as he and Isaac grated on each other competing for Scott’s attention, he can barely restrain himself from reaching across and slapping some sense into the Alpha…the bad Alpha an inner voice growls.  He has to force himself to continue.

 

“I don’t really remember what happened after that, just I was so angry…so very angry and I wasn’t going to let him hurt my Dad no matter what and after that…there was screaming and I think…I think I blacked out?”  Stiles can hear the question in his own voice, he doesn’t have an answer though because none of it makes any sense. 

 

He recalls reaching out towards something, not the gun on the ground only inches beyond his outstretched hand, but something else.  Something almost tangible that he couldn’t feel or discern with his ordinary human senses so he’d let go of them, casting himself adrift.  It had been so easy to let the pain carry him away, almost too easy, it scares him now to think that what he’d latched onto had possibly been the only thing stopping him from letting go completely and passing through the final veil.  The stream beneath him, deep in the very ground he lay upon had pulsed in what felt like recognition and he’d desperately grabbed onto that current of energy and with every ounce of his spark he could muster he’d held on and pulled.  Pulled so hard and so desperately he could feel it rushing through him like a tidal wave right before he lost consciousness. 

 

With all the crap going on with the Alpha Pack they’d looked closely at Danny’s map of telluric currents in Beacon Hills and had plotted their path, one had skimmed the edge of the forest right past Scott’s house.  Did he tap into that geomagnetic flow of energy to give him the strength to kill Deucalion and save his own life and all the others that the Alpha had threatened?  That he’s still here is maybe an answer in itself.

 

He’s starting to suspect there might have been an unexpected side effect of killing an Alpha werewolf with magic boosted by a mystical power source like the nemeton, something that a non-werewolf should never be able to receive.  Something that according to legend a spark isn’t capable of receiving.  He can’t deny that it rattles him.  Badly.  So it’s easier to shove that stray thought aside than to focus on it too closely.

 

“When I woke up, we weren’t behind your house anymore…we were at the base of a huge tree and Deucalion, he was-”  Stiles coughs uncomfortably, bile rising as he remembers vividly the bloody holes where Deucalion’s eyes had been.  The gouged out hollows staring at him from where he lay sprawled in the blood soaked grass, his head at an unnatural angle.  He picks at the black gunk under his thumbnail. 

 

“He was dead and there was blood…so much blood.  I couldn’t believe I was okay, not a mark on me even though he’d used me like a kitty cat’s scratching post before he got to the throat tearing.   He’d bitten me, but I don’t think it was THE bite…it was clear he didn’t intend for me to live long enough to become his Beta.  Then I called you guys before passing out again.”  It only occurs to him then as he points in the direction of Peter and Derek that he’d not even tried Scott’s number first, he’d automatically selected Derek’s contact number knowing that the Hales would be more than likely at the loft.  Knowing that they would always pick up his call and not brush it aside.

 

Stiles can’t help the hitch to his breathing when Peter suddenly leans in and presses his nose against his throat, inhaling deeply.  The scrape of his stubble over Stiles’ jaw is a delicious friction which ripples through his whole body.  The noise Peter makes is sharp and jagged, one of primal fury as he jerks his head back wildly, confusion clear in his expression. 

 

“You healed, you fully healed.  I can smell it on you.”

 

There’s a look in Peter’s eyes that makes Stiles pause.  He’s not been Peter’s biggest fan, biting his friends and terrorizing them all kinda puts a dampner on being besties, but there’s always been something between them from the very first, when he said so silkily ‘you must be Stiles’ it had sent shivers through him and not just from fear of a violent death.  However, with all the Alpha Pack stuff happening of late he’s seen a different side to the wolf.  A caring protective one for his last remaining family. 

 

The same look he had then for Cora and Derek is in his eyes now, but it’s for him this time and that’s weird and feels strangely right all at the same time.  It’s not something he’d thought he’d ever see, for beyond the fury there’s an agony of mixed feelings that Stiles isn’t sure he dare decipher, but all of it is threaded with such stark relief that Stiles slips his hand into Peter’s before he has a chance to think better of it.  That Peter looks momentarily dumbfounded before he gives him a familiar smirk and clutches it tight is not what he expects either, he takes comfort from his warm strength anyway.

 

“You’re not lying.”  Scott declares as he starts to walk towards Stiles only to freeze when Peter flashes his eyes in warning and Derek growls at him with such menace that the hair on the back of Stiles’ neck stands on end.

 

“No I’m not.”  Stiles stands up straighter, breaking away from the supporting hands of the two wolves.  His legs no longer feeling like they’re ready to give way beneath him.  His chest no longer feeling like it’s been cracked wide open. 

 

“You let him go Scott and he was going to come right back at us and take us out and everyone we care about one by one.”  He can’t keep still, has to move now.  Stiles paces back and forth, his arms flailing big and wide in his agitation.

 

“Even if all that’s true, if I’d been able to talk to him again I could’ve made him see reason.  You should’ve called me.”  Scott tilts his chin stubbornly.  “He didn’t need to die.  You killed him Stiles and you don’t seem to care one bit.”

 

Stiles turns and stalks towards Scott, quicker than what he should as a human and with more grace than he’s ever had.  Still, he’s surprised to see a startled flicker of alarm  in Scott’s big brown eyes as he stands in front of his friend and leans in close, their faces only inches apart and he lets go of some of the bitterness he’s been stewing in for so long.

 

“Would you have answered?  Because I gotta tell you Scotty, I really don’t think so.  Check your phone log sometime, see if you get the same picture I get from mine.”  Huffing a big sigh of frustration, Stiles steps back almost resigned to what he can see coming.

 

“I killed him and you’re right I don’t care.  I may not remember it, but I don’t doubt it because it was him or us Scott…you’ve gotta believe me.  I would do it again in a heartbeat if it means saving you and my Dad…your Mom and ** _everyone_** in this room.”  He’s conscious of the wounded noise Derek makes and the sharp inhale from Peter at the emphasis and hopes that they believe what his heartbeat should be telling them.

 

If anyone will it’s Scott and when his face falls Stiles knows that he does.  “And that’s the problem Stiles, you would do it again.  You would take another life like it was easier than putting out the trash.”

 

“Can you hear yourself?  Are you saying I should’ve let him kill me instead so I can live up to your expectations?  That you would rather I died than fought to live.”  For one moment Stiles looks over Scott’s shoulder and meets Isaac’s eyes and he can see the shimmer of understanding within them before the other boy blinks it away.

 

“No.  You know that’s not true, I don’t want you to die, but I don’t want you to kill either.  There’s other ways Stiles…other choices.”  Scott’s almost pleading and Stiles knows then that this is where they’ve been heading for the longest time, to the breaking point.

 

“Not this time Scott.”  He sighs heavily, weighed down with grief, and wonders when did he become so lost on everything Scott McCall that he stopped being Stiles Stilinski.  “And probably not the next either.”

 

Scott turns away and Stiles can feel it coming, can already feel the painful sting of rejection that his best friend is going to inflict when he leaves him behind.  Scott tiredly rubs the bridge of his nose for a moment and when he looks back his eyes are red.  Alpha red.

 

“I’m a True Alpha, Stiles.”  Stiles swallows the lump that’s formed in his throat as he sees the steely determination that’s written all over Scott’s handsome face.  “I can’t have a killer hanging around my pack, that’s not who we are…it’s not who I want us to be.  It would be best if you don’t talk to me…to us anymore-”

 

“Scott.”  Stiles says brokenly, throat thick with a swelling surge of emotion.

 

“No.  I mean it Stiles, don’t come near us again.”

 

It’s a slashing wound to the piece of his heart that’s always belonged to Scott McCall since their very first meeting back in kindergarten, when Scott had ignored the unspoken playground rule of don’t talk to the freaky, weird kid in class and asked to borrow Stiles’ glue stick.  It’s compounded by Allison and Isaac moving to stand either side of Scott in obvious support, not saying a word in protest or dismay at their Alpha’s decision. 

 

“Okay Scott, you want it that way you got it.  Ditto.  But, don’t think that I’ll stop protecting the people I care about simply because you don’t like my methods.  Admittedly they’re messier than slowly poisoning someone with mountain ash, but they’re effective and I give you fair warning now…if anything happens to my Dad because of you and your hard calls-“  Stiles feels that gaping wound slowly fill and harden with the promise he makes.  “I will be coming for you.”

 

Scott’s uneven jaw bunches even wider, visibly gritting his teeth as he stiffly nods in acknowledgement of the threat and his own hypocrisy although Stiles is pretty sure he doesn’t consider what he did to Gerard as murder.  “Likewise, if my Mom gets hurt because something comes looking for payback…”

 

“I’ll make sure not to leave any loose ends.”  Stiles grates out.

 

Scott’s eyes widen comically.  “That’s not what-“

 

“A real Alpha protects and defends the pack at all costs.”  Peter interrupts, standing at Stiles’ left shoulder.  Derek at his right.  “Or gives it all up to save the life of a pack mate.”  Derek quickly stifles a pained throaty sound, the near loss of Cora after only just finding her still raw.

 

“Seriously, **_you’re_** giving me lessons on being a good Alpha.”  Scott snorts loudly.  “And Stiles is not an Alpha, he’s not even a wolf.”

 

“You mean you can’t tell?  He’s more than a wolf, not like you and I – not born or bitten, but Stiles is definitely an Alpha.”  Derek leans into Stiles’ shoulder, his arm against Stiles’ in a manner that is so clearly an intent to scent mark that Stiles is speechless, a flush of heat sweeping over his cheeks at the feel of hard, sculpted muscle pressed into his body.  What’s even stranger than Derek’s declaration is Peter nodding his head in agreement and deliberately letting his knuckles brush against the back of Stiles’ hand sending tingles shooting up the length of his forearm.  What the heck?  He’s been feeling an unusual intensity to the connection he has to the Hales since he regained his senses, but sourwolf and creeperwolf are really starting to freak him out with all the touchy feely business as much as his own reaction to it does. 

 

“A powerful one at that.  I think he’s always been one at heart, we just couldn’t see it beyond all the drama that is a True Alpha.”  A snarky Peter is a happy Peter, Stiles thinks as he watches the wolf with a mere tilt of his head and a raised eyebrow towards Scott, make it perfectly clear that when he says “True Alpha” everyone can hear “Drama Queen”.

 

Scott’s eyes flash red as he roars, baring his fangs at Peter demanding his submission and it instantly pisses Stiles off.  Stiles can tell it’s mainly in annoyance and simply Scott trying to put Peter in his place rather than a serious threat, even so he doesn’t even bother to attempt to resist the urge to step in front of the older wolf and protect what’s his from the other Alpha and his lips peel back into a snarl that’s surely as ferocious as any wolf.  A booming clap of thunder rolls overhead and the glass in the huge windows behind him bows and shakes violently, thankfully not shattering, but pretty close. 

 

There are a few stunned and nervous glances towards himself and then the large windows where it’s quite obvious that there’s no approaching storm in the clear night sky.

 

“Don’t ever do that again.”  Stiles grinds out.  The sharp tang of ozone fills the air and Stiles can feel a prickling charge of sensation race over his skin making the hair on his arms stand on end, his fingertips tingling almost to the point of pain.  It’s a good pain though, like when he slips a second finger into his hole and the stretch is a burning ache right before he spills, the kind of pain that makes him grit his teeth to stop himself from groaning too loudly if his Dad’s home from shift while he’s enjoying some happy alone time.  

 

Lifting his hands Stiles wishes he could say he was surprised to see that there’s a glow to them and that the sight of the electrical charge that mischievously skips and dances between his fingers, snapping and crackling, is totally unexpected, but he can’t.  There’s a recognition of these things that he can only assume is from his subconscious which passes on the freaky ass message to his conscious brain telling him that this is all him, this is his power and it’s finally free – he’s pretty sure there’s a hallelujah in there somewhere.  Whatever’s been holding it back has gone and it feels like there are no limits to what he can do.

 

The sense of well-being that floods through his whole system is amazing, he feels so fucking good that he could do any number of suicides that Finstock wanted.  The exhaustion from lack of sleep and recovering from old and new injuries is gone.  The weight of oppression and dread that he’s seemed to be permanently carrying since their sacrifices to fight the darach has lifted and he doesn’t feel as vulnerable and exposed, both physically and mentally, since climbing out of the ice bath he’d sacrificed himself in.

 

He feels alive. 

 

“What are you?”  Isaac says breathlessly, eyes wide and unblinking.

 

“Nothing good.”  Scott murmurs under his breath and Stiles can hear it as sharp and as clear as if he was standing right beside him and the jab of hurt his ex-best friend inflicts with mere words is piercing. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Stiles thought the worst was behind him, he's sadly mistaken. What comes to light is more painful than he'd ever imagined.

**THEN**

 

“Stiles you’ve gotta come with me to see Deaton.”  Scott says urgently.

 

“What for?”  Stiles snaps viciously, a cornered animal wounded beyond bearing.

 

“He warned me a while back that your spark is dangerous…that **_you_** are dangerous and I think you’ve proven that.”  Scott gestures towards Stiles, his hand waving up and down, and suddenly he can feel every speck of blood and filth that covers him from near enough head to toe scouring his suddenly too-sensitive skin like sandpaper under that pitying look.

 

“Dangerous.  DANGEROUS.”  Stiles growls bitterly, unable to believe what he’s hearing.  Unable to believe that he’d not had a clue, that his best friend who had once told him everything including when he’d first had a wet dream at age 11 convinced that he had some awful disease, had managed to keep this a secret.  “No more than 5 minutes ago you’re telling me that my spark was little more than a cheap parlour trick.  That I’m basically useless compared to the rest of you…compared to Deaton.”

 

“I had to, I know you Stiles.  You would’ve pushed to try and use it even knowing the danger and who knows what you would’ve done then.  Who you could’ve hurt.  This time it was Deucalion, what if it had been me or Lydia even your Dad?  Could you live with that, because I know I couldn’t.”  Scott shakes his head and Stiles winces feeling guilty.  He can’t deny the accusation because he has been trying, admittedly without much success, to connect to his spark again and researching everything he’d been able to lay his hands on without tipping off Deaton after he refused to teach him when he'd bitten the bullet and asked.

 

“When Deaton found out you were able to complete the circle around the rave building even though you didn't have enough ash he freaked saying you never should’ve been able to and he warned me then.  I get it now, this wasn’t you murdering Deucalion it’s your spark, it’s growing too quickly and taking control like Deaton said it would and I know you don’t want to hurt anyone not really…not the Stiles I know and love.”  Scott’s imploring him, dragging out the big guns of his puppy eyes and even after everything that’s been said Stiles can still feel the pull after near enough a lifetime of being under their influence and his resolve wavers even though it burns that Scott still considers Deucalion's death as murder rather than self-defence.  

 

“Deaton can re-do the spell and then you won’t hurt anyone else.”

 

Ice snap-freezes Stiles’ veins.  The blood that’s been pumping through his body so hot and energized is suddenly cold and so sluggish that it almost seems as though everything’s moving in slow-motion.

 

“What spell?”  That ice seeps into his voice, deathly cold, and he can see the others shiver at the sound, their breaths becoming visible in the rapidly cooling air.  The wolves are warm at his back and he’s grateful for that contact, their presence grounding him as much as the steady rumble of their sub-vocal growls that vibrate through his whole body.

 

“I don’t know exactly…something about null magic, but it’s okay Stiles.  We’ll get him to do it again and maybe it will stop your spark completely this time and things can go back to how they were.”  Scott nods his head encouragingly.

 

“Stop it completely?”  Stiles murmurs in disbelief.

 

“Yeah no matter what Deaton tried he couldn’t get it to go away completely like it should’ve, now that you know though it’ll probably work much easier.”  Scott smiles happily.

 

“You helped Deaton perform a ritual of nullification on Stiles?”  Peter asks, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he regards Scott with a shuttered expression.  Stiles hopes his internal freak out isn’t clear to anyone else because he’d long since determined from all his research that usually anything with ‘ritual’ in the title is Ominous, with a capital ‘O’.

 

“Not really.  I just had to get a few of Stiles’ things so Deaton could focus the spell.”  He turns to Stiles, eyes big and wide with an earnest naivety that makes Stiles’ stomach churn.  “I had to save you from yourself.”

 

“What things?”  Stiles asks quietly, ignoring the fact that his friend seems to think he’s the hero in a fairytale world of benign spells and enchantments, of clear cut right and wrong, rather than the bloody and savage one of reality with dark rituals, anti-heroes and violence.  It makes his fingertips start to tingle once more.  The cold inside him changing the electric sparks from white to the purest of blues, a neon that he’d only ever seen twice now.

 

The first time was on a Discovery channel documentary on an Indonesian volcano from which rivers of blue lava and flame would flow with an otherworldly beauty.  Slanting his head first one way and then the other to where Peter and Derek still stand either side of him, they’re glaring at Scott with a fury that’s palpable, their eyes glowing a violent blue that echoes that volcano.  Even in their rage it’s so beautiful, they’re so beautiful, that Stiles can feel his chest squeeze tight at the sight and he struggles to focus on what Scott’s saying.

 

“Nothing…nothing important, just some hair from your brush.”  Scott looks nervous for an instant before he continues on doggedly.  “A photo from your room and the side mirror off the Jeep.”

 

“Well there you go, that explains it.  I thought Erica was still holding a grudge and taking it out on my Jeep, as for my hair that’s a bit gross dude, but…go you.”  Stiles fist pumps the air, before he lets both hands hang loosely at his sides and watches entranced as the sparks at his fingertips lengthen, crackling loudly when they touch the floor. 

 

“The photo, I know which one it was…you know I’d been looking for it don’t you?  Oh wait, you barely speak to me lately and don’t take my calls so no you probably didn’t know or was it that you felt so guilty Scott that you couldn’t answer the phone?”  Stiles lifts his gaze and watches as the other boy grimaces, shuffling his feet from side to side.

 

“That photo booth picture from the boardwalk is the only one I’ve got of Mom and me from Santa Cruz.  You remember that Scottie, it was the last vacation we had where she was still Mom and not…not…anyway, who’d of thought Dad’s camera would get stolen in the hotel lobby…you know being a cop and so paranoid about our luggage and it still managed to walk.  All those photos from our big road trip down the coast, all those happy memories gone except for one packed away in my Transformers suitcase…you know the kid-size ones with wheels and Optimus Prime on the front.”  Stiles sucks in a steadying breath.  “I really loved that case.”

 

“We needed it, it had to be something important to you for the spell to work.”

 

“Sounds to me like it didn’t work so well at all anyway.  So, where is it?”  Stiles bites out, taking grim satisfaction in hearing Scott swallow loudly.

 

“Stiles, I-“

 

“Where’s the photo Scott?”      

 

“It was destroyed when Deaton cast the spell.”  Scott bounces on the balls of his feet.  “I’m sorry Stiles, but we had to.  Deaton said that your spark was growing too quickly, that you wouldn’t be able to control it and it would take over.  This was the only way to keep everyone safe.”

 

A globe from one of the overhead lights flickers on and off rapidly before exploding.  Stiles ignores the falling shower of glass even as his friends, and he really uses the term loosely, jump awkwardly out of the way.

 

“Did you and Deaton ever think of talking to me about this instead of conspiring against me?”

 

“Don't be dramatic.  We weren’t conspiring, you wouldn’t have listened.”  

 

“I would’ve listened to you, even if I didn’t agree…I would’ve at least listened because it’s you.”  Stiles insists.

 

Scott shakes his head vigorously in disagreement.  “No you wouldn’t.  I know you’ve been struggling with everything…with jealousy, it’d be hard not to.  Everything’s changed and I’m so much stronger and faster than you, more popular…just more.” 

 

“More of a dick.”  Cora mutters.

 

Ignoring her, Scott shrugs his shoulders as though what he’s said is an irrefutable fact and Stiles struggles to hold back and not punch him in his damnably smug face remembering all the sleepless nights as he'd tried to gather as much information that he could to help his friend be the best werewolf he could be. 

 

“Be honest Stiles, being a werewolf is so far beyond being the smartest guy in the room that if you thought you could have some power over me, you wouldn’t have hesitated to go for it.”

 

Derek snorts loudly, rolling his eyes, echoing Stiles’ feelings perfectly.  They both know that Scott’s never thought of lycanthropy as a gift and yet he’s so willing to use it to his advantage only to bitch about his loss of humanity in the same instant.

 

“Do you know what nullify means, Scott?”  Stiles has never seen Peter’s face so dark and forbidding.  Still handsome, but so very dangerous it feels like being locked in the same room as a cobra.  The smile he gives Scott when he shakes his head sends a shiver down Stiles’ spine.

 

“From the latin, to make as nothing.”  Lydia rasps and the quiver of her full lips tells Stiles that she understands exactly what the ritual was meant to do even if he’s only just starting to comprehend.

 

“That’s right.  Nullification is the act of cancelling something, basically erasing it.  A ritual to nullify magic will erase it completely and what do you suppose happens to the person that it’s being enacted upon?”  Peter stalks slowly towards Scott who stands his ground, rather foolishly Stiles thinks, because Scott has made it quite clear that he’s against killing anyone or anything, whereas Peter doesn’t have any qualms about eliminating any threats or dumbass Alphas whatsoever. 

 

Stiles doesn’t have any proof, but he suspects that Peter’s dealt with a few dangerous outsiders of the supernatural kind that he’d been monitoring since they’d entered Beacon Hills when they’d abruptly disappeared without a trace.  He’d not mentioned it to Scott as he didn’t have proof and potential problems were being eliminated without harming the rest of the pack which was a positive as far as he was concerned.  That no one has seen any sign of Jennifer Blake or whoever the hell she was since the big showdown at the distillery makes him wonder if Peter had handled the darach as well.  If Peter did the clean-up with Deucalion then Stiles will have to owe him one because there would be no trace left behind, no evidence, unless he wanted it too.  He’s that good.

 

“They go back to normal, become human again.”  Stiles is barely able to stop the urge to face palm himself to death at the clear conviction in Scott’s voice.

 

“Oh Scott…if only.”  Peter’s tone is almost pitying.  “A nullification ritual is looked upon as one of the most heinous that can be cast because the majority of magic users…that’s druids, witches, sorcerers, mages and sparks whatever their ability will go insane before dying a very painful death if their magic is tampered with in such a way.  Most of them have protections of some sort against such a ritual to prevent not only their magic being erased, but from being siphoned off by other magic users and leaving behind a drained shell.”

 

Scott sneers.  “You’re lying.  Deaton wouldn’t do that to Stiles, he’s trying to help him.”

 

“Are you sure about that, Scott?  Let me guess, was it something along the lines of ‘it’s a risk, but we have to take it to save us all and by the way bring him to the clinic alone so we can do it privately’.”  Peter says piously, placing his hand over his heart.  

 

The way Scott’s eyes widen and his uneven jaw shifts from side to side is a dead giveaway and even if he hadn’t known Scott for all these years, he’s pretty sure he’d still be able to read him perfectly and it leaves him gutted.

 

“So when it inevitably failed and Stiles is locked away in a padded cell at Eichen either insane or an empty shell, he could say quite truthfully that he’d warned you.  The only reason that you’re not mourning him right now is that Deaton underestimated quite badly how powerful Stiles really is.  He knew he was strong enough that he would try to take his magic, yet Stiles’ spark managed to fight off the effects of that ritual and that’s simply unheard of.”  Peter turns his head to look back over his shoulder at Stiles, pride and hunger burning brightly in his eyes.  “But, nothing surprises me anymore when it comes to him.”

 

“You’re a foolish, ignorant boy Scott and all the more dangerous because of it.  If he’d been left alone to develop his spark, Stiles more than likely would have been able to stop the Alpha Pack, maybe Gerard and the kanima too.  He could’ve saved a lot of lives, more than you ever could, but between you and Deaton you crippled him with that ritual.  Smothered his spark so it nearly suffocated.”

 

“It’s not like that, I would never hurt you Stiles.”  Scott says, genuinely outraged at the suggestion.  “You can’t believe what Peter says.”

 

“Right now I believe him more than I do you.  It was that time you asked me to come and keep you company at the clinic while you were working, come play with the new puppies you said, they need cuddles you said.  It was then wasn’t it?   WASN’T IT?”  Stiles demands, voice rising as he recalls that day. 

 

“You were acting so weird, so jumpy, but you know what the sad part is?  I was so fucking grateful to be spending some time with you, my best friend, that I didn’t call you on it.  I didn’t care.  Was Deaton in the other room?  Was he trying to tear me apart while you distracted me?”  Scott’s eyes dart around wildly before settling on staring the ground into submission.  “With puppies, that’s harsh man.”

 

“You were willing to take that chance, Scott.  With my sanity, with my life.  You would’ve left my Dad all alone.”  Ice is in every part of him now and Stiles had thought that it was the chill of numbness, that he’s so emotionally battered that he simply can’t feel anymore, but he realises now that he’s wrong.  There’s one emotion that he can feel, a dispassionate fury that’s so cold it burns.  He can forgive a lot when it comes to himself, but when it’s his Dad- 

 

More globes shatter overhead, popping one after the other, leaving only a few working randomly.  The loft would be in near darkness, but for the dazzling blue white current that he’s discharging through his hands and grounding it into the concrete floor as it increases in intensity and spreads around him. 

 

There’s a gratification in seeing the Hales stand their ground, unafraid, as the electricity shapes and arcs around them leaving them unharmed.  Derek laughs delightedly as he holds out his hand and a small arc of lightning leaps to dance upon his palm, with his hair standing on end like a school science experiment and his lips curved into the most genuine natural smile Stiles has ever seen on him, a warmth pierces the icy chill that has settled into his body.  He wishes he could always see him like this, so carefree, he looks younger and Stiles is struck once again by the realisation that Derek’s really only 22 or 23, not very much older than himself all things considered.

 

Stiles can’t hold back an evil snicker of delight when Isaac yelps trying to copy his former Alpha and the arcing current of energy lashes at his hand with a loud snap.  Growling as he shakes out the pain from his stinging fingers, Isaac’s eyes flash to gold as he bares his fangs and Stiles’ shoulders tighten and his fingers curl, clawlike, in instinctive response at the impudence from a lower ranking wolf in the hierarchy.

 

“Oh my God, Stiles…your eyes.”  Lydia cries out as she stumbles a few unsteady steps towards him lacking her usual grace, Cora leaps down from her vantage point and quickly grabs her by the elbow so she doesn't fall flat on her face.  The others cower back towards the steps leading to the front door of the loft.  Stiles glances over his shoulder to the windows and sees his reflection and can’t hold back the shocked sound that slips out.

 

Stiles freely admits he’s been in denial about what happened to him in the forest with Deucalion.  Whether it’s from the trauma or that it’s one more fucked up mess too much, it’s all too apparent that he’s not been thinking clearly.  Although maybe he should cut himself some slack, considering he’d not only still been suffering the aftereffects of the sacrifice, but also being knocked out after crashing his Jeep, when he made the decision to leave his Dad recovering at the hospital and follow Deucalion. 

 

Was it really only this morning he’d made the choice that’s permanently changed his life forever?  It had seemed logical at the time, but he realises now how dumb it was going solo and leaving himself open to being attacked and nearly killed by said Alpha.  To wake up and find himself in possession of what can only be Deucalion’s Alpha spark which had merged with his own natural magic one is a miracle or he reflects simply his own powerful determination not to let anyone he cares about be harmed. 

 

After all that and the way Peter, Derek and Cora have been behaving towards him, he’d fully expected his eyes to be red, but they’re not.  Not completely anyway.  What they are is filled with the silver glow of galaxies and supernovas, shooting stars and eclipses, all the infinite universes are swirling there into infinity and at the very centre, a pinprick of red. 

 

The press of fangs against the inside of his mouth, parts his lips and he’s amazed that he didn’t even feel them manifest which is true of the silver-tipped claws he now possesses too.  The strange thing is that aside from the fangs, claws and glowing eyes Stiles’ features haven’t changed or morphed into the more familiar bulky partial shift that the other wolves can do.  His face is essentially still human and way less hairy than Peter and Derek’s when they change.  If that’s so different he wonders what other variations there might be to his senses or his abilities.

 

Amazing as all of that is, it’s the lines of white blue luminescence that follow the veins from his temples down his jawline and neck flowing onto his chest and tracing down the length of his arms that is truly the most startling change.  There’s a heat burning his chest, not painful, just a constant warmth settled there.  Tugging at the neck of his already torn and tattered shirt Stiles can’t contain his gasp at seeing the image of a large tree with sprawling branches and a thick trunk and roots starting above his navel and reaching up and across the planes of his chest.  The luminescent tree is overlaid with a triskelion and the most powerful sensation of rightness and a return to order washes over him. 

 

“Hot damn, Stiles.”  It’s surprising to hear the awe in Cora’s tone, especially when he’s more accustomed to the aggressive, sarcastic one she normally uses with him.  She’s still standing next to Lydia, their shoulders brushing together.

 

“Beautiful.”  Derek says, wonder shining brightly across his handsome features as he stares.  Stiles’ heart starts to thud heavily in his chest at the sweet smile that the normally grim wolf gives him, he prefers it to the dazzling all-teeth one he’s seen him use as a weapon, because this is the real Derek.

 

“Alpha.”  The longing in Peter’s voice is deep and so genuine that Stiles can feel the throbbing ache of it in his chest and the sparks shooting from his hands dwindle to next to nothing.  The glow that radiates from the tree on his chest fills the loft, reaching in to every corner and lighting it up.  He’s distantly aware that Scott, Allison and Isaac huddle together faces turned away like he’s gone nuclear. 

 

He can’t bring himself to care, not able to take his eyes off his wolves for a moment.  The pull he feels to them is extraordinary and he wants to surrender himself to that gravitational force.  That they are his wolves he has no doubt and when both of them move towards him and tilt their heads, baring their throats in a display of submission he nearly swallows his tongue with the desperate need to touch them.  To claim them.

 

Reaching out, Stiles trembles as he brushes his fingertips over the taut tendons in their necks feeling their skin beneath the scrape of his claws, softly hushing them when they both whine in anticipation.  He lets his hands cup their throats feeling their racing pulses beneath his palms, the rapid bob of their Adam’s apple reminding him that they are still vulnerable regardless of their abilities and how much trust they are giving him in this moment.  He’s humbled that two men who’ve suffered and endured so much are willing to place themselves under his protection and he will protect them regardless of what they've done in the past and against whatever may come in the future.  They are as much his as his father is and he will stop at nothing to ensure that they are all safe.

 

“Mine.”  The double echo timbre of his wolf voice rumbles out of his chest, deep and possessive, his promise sealed purely by his will and without the need for a bite even though his fangs ache and his mouth waters. 

 

“Yours.”  Derek and Peter state in unison.  In an instant Stiles can clearly see a cord stretching between himself and each of his Betas and another between the two men.  They glow with the light of a full moon, clear and bright and he is filled with their joy and wonder at being pack once more.

 

Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, Stiles pivots fixing the audience of his former friends with a glare that he hopes conveys how much he wants them gone.  This is too intimate for outsiders to witness and at this moment there’s no sorrow or regret that he now regards these people, who he would and has gone to the wall for, in this way. 

 

“Leave Scott.”  Stiles orders and with an effort, because it feels so damn good, manages to reel that light back inside, feeling it settle deep within his chest.

 

Blinking rapidly, Scott holds his hands out in entreaty.  “Come on Stiles…Deaton will be able to fix you-“

 

“Fix me.  I don’t need fixing, there’s nothing wrong with me, Scott.  What will Deaton do?”  Stiles stalks closer, the anger he represses in every muscle of his body makes it ache.  “Be obscure and give half-truths or nothing at all.  He wanted to take my magic because he thought he could get away with it.  He didn't know how powerful I could be and don’t get me wrong, I am powerful.”  With a flick of his hand Scott, Allison and Isaac are lifted by an unseen force and deposited gently onto the top step of the entrance, even so they still stagger slightly with the shift to their equilibrium and clutch at each other wide-eyed.   

 

“I’m a threat to everything he holds dear, being an emissary to a True Alpha.  That’s what he’s molded you to become, which isn’t necessarily bad, but think about it, he’s not given you full disclosure on so many important things.  He’s left us in the dark more often than not and in some instances I think he’s actually worked against us. ”

 

Stiles’ Betas are flanking him and a grim determination fills him as he sends what he hopes is a clear message to them through their pack bonds asking for their trust for what he’s about to do next.  The unconditional acceptance and permission from Peter and Derek that he receives instantly in return has his eyes stinging.  He hadn’t realised what this would feel like to be bonded in this way.  It’s not like they can read minds or send thoughts to each other, nothing like that, it’s deeper. 

 

He can feel Peter and Derek in his heart and in his mind, welcome presences that share of themselves so intimately that when he thinks of the bonds they lost he can’t imagine having that connection to his pack being torn away so brutally and with everything he is there’s no way he’ll let that happen to them again.  Before he loses control completely Stiles places a hand on the nape of their necks and lets his power and will determine where the blockages are and casts them aside effortlessly.

 

“You and Deaton have got what you wanted.  The True Alpha has his emissary.  I didn’t ask for this anymore than you did Scott, but I won’t deny who I’ve become or what I am-”  Stiles gives a nudge with his spark, wills the complete shift upon them and for the barest split second he doesn’t think it’s going to work when suddenly Peter and Derek stiffen, then hunch over as their bodies start to stretch and twist beyond the control of their human selves.  Reforming into something else entirely. 

 

“-I’m an Alpha werewolf and this is my pack.”

 

Before he’s even finished speaking, Peter and Derek have dropped to the floor as the rippling change takes effect, clawing at their clothes to free themselves and where once stood two handsome men are now two extraordinarily beautiful wolves.  Huge wolves that stand to near enough chest high against Stiles.  Derek is pure black, his electric blue eyes starkly beautiful against his dark fur. Peter’s coat is mahogany, a rich deep brown with red highlights.  Their bodies broad and solid across the shoulders and back, sleek and muscular through their flanks – pure predators.  Stiles’ fingers curl into the hair on their thick necks, the individual strands are coarse, but together they form a thick soft pelt.  The brush of their fur against his palms is electrifying.

 

He can feel the residual pain of their change, it’s like a number of pulled or torn muscles all at once, so he draws it into himself even though he knows their own healing abilities will kick in and earns a reproachful look from Derek and a rebuking one from Peter.  Wincing at the nausea that settles in his gut like a stone from the drawn out pain, he’s relieved when it quickly dissipates.  Threading his fingers through the strands of fur around the base of one ear on each of them he scratches lightly with his claws in apology, not that he wouldn’t do it again if he felt it was needed.  Derek sighs heavily while Peter leans into his touch, a base contentment comes through the bonds from both of them and Stiles strokes and pets them, delighting in the pleasure they are feeling under his hands.

 

“Stiles.”  Scott begins, hesitating for a moment, shock still evident in his expression at what he’s witnessed.  “We need to talk about this.”

 

Stiles turns his attention to the other boy and nods his head in agreement.

 

“You’re right of course we do.”

 

“I am.”  Scott replies, momentarily startled.

 

“Yes.  We need to negotiate terms between our packs, determine what permissions you have while living in our territory.  There’s no way I’d ask Melissa to leave her home and job.”

 

“Your territory?”  Scott splutters heatedly and Isaac growls angrily.

 

“Of course.  The Hales have had ties to this land for a long, long time and ties to the nemeton too.  You can ask Deaton if you want, but the land is bound to the Hale bloodline.  This is Hale Pack territory.  Always was, always will be.”  There’s a surge of such savage pride and approval that floods through the bonds that Stiles’ fangs ache.  His wolves are grinning viciously, incisors gleaming white, red tongues lolling as they pant heavily in excitement.  With the way their shoulders heave and shake Stiles doesn’t need to check their bonds to know that they’re laughing at Scott’s outraged expression. 

 

That pride and approval isn’t just from his wolves though, there’s another entity that brushes against his mind and senses.  It feels like the air is completely sucked out of the room, his ears wanting to pop from the sudden vacuum and his lungs creak desperately for oxygen.  For the briefest of moments Stiles feels like he steps outside of time and space.  His body, his consciousness flowing across the land.  Connecting with the trees that whisper secrets in the breeze, the rustling grasses underfoot and all the wild and living things that scurry and run, creep and crawl, fly and swim in the preserve surrounding the nemeton. 

 

He can feel the mountain lion pause in its hunt, muscles bunching tight as he rolls over it, seeing through its eyes the fleeing rabbit that leaps and bounds so enticingly before making its escape at the big cat’s hesitation.  The squirrel curled up tight with its babies in its warm nest. The owl taking flight, soaring high so he can see the uppermost canopy of the trees beneath him, edged with silvery moonlight, and the open expanse of star-filled sky above him. 

 

The nemeton looms large before him, from where he kneels between its thick roots and he places his palms flat against the broadest tree trunk he’s ever seen.  The contrasting textures of bark and lichen against his skin – rough and hard in some places, spongy and cool in others.  The dying stump he’d seen only 48 hours ago had been the bleakest, most faded shadow of what he can see and feel in this massive oak tree now.  It’s alive.  Alive and sentient, a sentience that is not even remotely human in its intelligence or its needs and wants to render it so unutterably alien and yet Stiles can feel its gratitude and he gives his own back in return. 

 

Whatever had taken place here with he and Deucalion, there’s no doubt in his mind that the nemeton had given him enough of a boost to rip the Alpha power right out of his warped soul with his spark.  Intentional or not, the power of the sacrifice it had received had also purged the nemeton of a poison deep within it, as he’s shown the echo of a particularly vicious, mischievous presence that hissed and buzzed threats and enticements equally maliciously, now that it’s gone the tree will be able to flourish once more.    

 

Blinking he’s back in the loft and time hasn’t moved on without him, but his knowledge has grown in that interlude, knowing that today not just one but two great evils have been expunged from Beacon Hills forever.  Did Deaton regard him as such – a great evil to be dealt with?  If there was even the remotest possibility that Deaton had truly thought of him as such a threat he could almost live with the betrayal, but remembering the cool calculation that had often appeared in the vet’s eyes Stiles doubts it.

 

“We’ll contact your emissary and arrange a time and place.”  Stiles says.  “And now I think it’s time for you to leave.”

 

“Stiles.”  Scott tries again, using the full force of his big Bambi-like eyes and a pout.

 

“Goodbye Scott.”  Stiles insists.  Surely the slump of Scott’s shoulders should make him feel triumphant or vindicated or something other than simply really, really sad.

 

There’s a shiny wetness to Allison’s eyes as she meets his and he feels his heart twist into a knot because they’ve been through a lot together both loving Scott like they do and he’d never thought it would come to this.  Whatever she sees in his face though has her sucking in her lower lip and biting on it as though she’s trying to hold on as he nods in farewell. 

 

He’s never seen eye to eye with Isaac, he’d expected him to be aggressively defensive of his Alpha towards him, so the rather subdued “Stiles” takes him by surprise.  His own response even more so when he says the other boy’s name in acknowledgement without the snarky tone he usually laces it with.  Isaac places his hand on Scott’s shoulder and he can see the change it brings to the Alpha, the way he straightens under his Beta’s touch and leans towards him drawing comfort. 

 

It doesn’t make him jealous, not much anyway when he thinks of the way things could’ve been.  All he can do is hope that Isaac, who seems more in tune with his wolf side, will have better luck at making Scott more aware of what he and Isaac need as wolves.  He seems to be ready to have Scott’s back which is the most important thing now that Stiles will no longer be there to guard it.

 

“Come on Lydia, let’s go.” Scott says as they turn to leave.

 

When Stiles turns his attention to Lydia she’s looking right back at him, her features stern, Cora still holding her elbow at her side.  He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek to not react to her leaving, the metallic tang of copper filling his mouth.  He knows that she’s forgiven him for his unrelentingly persistent stalker behaviour and become his friend which is somehow so much better than all the stupid soft porn fantasies he’d once formed around her.  A friend that challenges him constantly and calls him on his bullshit when warranted.  He’s become as close to her as he thought he and Scott once were, but if this is her limit then it’ll be another crack in his battered heart to see her walk away too, so he braces himself.

 

“Actually, you go on without me.  I think I might hang around here for a bit.”  She says lightly, a slow smile stretching her lush lips into something that teases the senses of ordinary men and gets them to do foolish, foolish things.  There’s a low unhappy rumbling from Derek who moves forward and leans back into his legs and belly.  Stiles dismisses almost instantly the weird thought that it’s like he’s trying to block her and keep him away and if it wasn’t all so ridiculous, Stiles would be tempted to call it relief shining out of Peter’s eyes when she turns towards Cora and amps up the full force of that smile onto the she-wolf.  If it’s not simply his imagination running riot, he can only think that they’re acting so territorial because he’s just claimed them.

 

Cora looks startled and slightly awed for a split second before she returns that smile with one as blinding and dazzling as Derek’s and as effective if the faint tinge of pink that blushes Lydia’s cheeks to perfection is any indication.  Considering Lydia doesn’t blush for anyone or anything, whatever is between them must be different to her usual conquests.  Derek stops growling, head cocked to one side for a moment simply observing his sister, before his long tail slowly starts to sweep back and forth.

 

“You’re staying?”  To Stiles’ mind, Scott appears to have been blindsided by Lydia’s decision as much as he has, a pinched expression appearing on his face before resignation, because as innocent sounding as Lydia’s declaration was, it’s definitely a choice.

 

“Lydia?”  Allison’s voice is hesitant and a little bit wavery.

 

“It’s okay Ally.  I’ll call you in the morning.”  The promise hangs heavy and true in the air and maybe Allison can feel it too when she smiles faintly and says slightly more confidently ‘OK’ in reply before sliding her hand into Scott’s. 

 

Stiles doesn’t say anything more as the McCall Pack leaves and neither do they.  There's no drawn out tearful goodbyes.  He waits until they’re out of hearing range and has to pull himself up at that thought, because when did he start to be able to hear Scott’s heartbeat and the very clear kick it gives at the end of a rhythm. 

 

Now that he’s heard it, he’s not sure he’ll ever hear it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The volcano with blue lava and flames is real. The Kawah Ljen volcano is in Indonesia.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles rejoices for what he's gained and with his pack, and particularly Derek and Peter's help, he's starting to believe that it far outweighs the loss of Scott's friendship that he still can't help but grieve over.

**THEN**

 

“Are you going to ask us?”  Cora steps in front of him, thankfully interrupting that bleaker than bleak train of thought, making him twitch in surprise.

 

“Ask you what?”  Stiles says in bewilderment, when Lydia coughs pointedly and indicates with raised eyebrows and a tilt of her head the large furry wolves behind him. 

 

“Oh.  Ohhhh.  Sorry, of course I am.  Cora Hale, Lydia Martin will you do me the honour of-“  He breaks off, heat burning in his cheeks when they start to giggle.  If that sound doesn’t strike terror in the heart of men everywhere, even Alpha werewolves, they’re dumber than batshit and deserve everything they get. 

 

Although when he thinks about it he does rather sound like he’s straight out of ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and he only knows that because he read every painstaking word after seeing Lydia had a copy in her locker back when he was going through his 10 year plan to impress her.  He’s no Mr Darcy, that's for sure.

 

“Sorry, new at this.”  He grimaces.  “Uhhh…Cora, Lydia I’d like to offer you both a place in the Pack.”  Lydia’s lips part and before she can say anything Stiles rushes on needing to make one thing perfectly clear before things go any further.  “As pack mates you would need to be willing to protect and defend every member of this pack as they would protect and defend you.”

 

Lydia’s eyes flick to Peter in his wolf form and he wonders if this is the deal breaker for her considering her past dealings with Peter.  He personally doesn't have any doubts about Peter's commitment to the pack and how far he would go to protect it and strangely he had that certainty even before the pack bond was in place.  Peter’s wolf blue eyes hold hers steady and unwavering and whether it’s because he’s not the human version it makes it easier she slowly nods her head.  Relief floods through him and he knows that when he’s ready and when he’s spoken to his left and right hands and if they see what he sees, he will probably offer Lydia the role of Emissary for the Hale Pack.

 

“My Mom used to say to me all the time ‘your cares are my cares, your joys are my joys and together we’ll see it through’ and that is what I’m offering to you now, I promise to try and be the best Alpha I can be and a good friend.”  If the Argent’s can have a code then so can they and he can’t think of a better one for a pack of wolves than this one from his Mom. 

 

Lydia launches herself into his arms and he staggers trying to not hug her back as fiercely as he can, he’s not got a gauge on his strength yet and the thought of hurting someone so dear to him is too awful to contemplate.  He tries to be careful with his claws too, not wanting them to catch on the delicate floaty material of her dress, because he’s pretty sure Alpha or not she’d kill him.  Turning her head she kisses him chastely on the cheek.

 

“I heard you, Stiles.  The wolf called to me.”  Stiles draws back in surprise recalling the howl of the wolf he’d heard during his traumatizing metamorphosis and he can see the seriousness of her expression and slowly breathes deeply, inhaling Lydia’s perfume of ginger and tea roses.  “I promise to try and be a good friend and pack mate too **_and_** an even better Emissary once you ask me.”

 

Her smile is full of affection for him and Stiles can’t help but grin back.  She really knows him too well.

 

“Not a bad pitch Stiles.”  Cora says teasingly and he turns to pull her into his arms too, laughing at the rumbling growl she makes.  Huffing in satisfaction when she burrows in and nuzzles his jawline, drawing in a few deep breaths.  He hopes he doesn’t stink too much and tentatively inhales through his nose and it’s like his whole nervous system lights up - he can smell everything. 

 

He realises that what he thought was Lydia’s perfume was actually her own natural scent now that he can pick up on the underlying salt and musk.  Cora’s is the crisp first snow of Winter and the cool bite of menthol.   Their contrasting scents mingle and to Stiles’ nose it’s somehow very appealing and very right and he shocks himself when a gentle rumbling vibration stirs in his chest rising to his vocal chords.  Holy shit. 

 

It’s the sound of a contented wolf.  Again, holy shit.  **_HE’S_** the contented wolf.

 

He doesn’t even dare try to scent his two wolves, the impulse to go and bury his face in the ruff of their fur and simply breathe is almost too strong already and he needs to focus.  Willing his senses to dial down a notch or two, he’s relieved when it starts to fade and more than grateful that unlike other new wolves he seems to have some degree of control already.  No longer overwhelmed he feels the most powerful need to strengthen the connection he already has to the two women in his arms to something more permanent.

 

“Mine.”  The claim is set solid almost instantly as he feels the bonds take root, the rush of it leaves him dizzy and he can hear the sharp intake of their breath and the tightening of their muscles as they obviously feel it too.  His fingers rub soothingly over their napes, tangling in long strands of silky straight black hair and the loose strawberry curls that have escaped from Lydia’s chignon. 

 

Acknowledging the new bonds he can see that there is one each leading from his chest to Lydia and Cora’s, which are a shimmering gold.  The one that links between the two girls, however, is the same as the bonds that are between himself and Peter and Derek, it glows with the silvery light of the moon.

 

He ponders on the implications of that and turns his head slightly from where his cheek rests slightly on top of Lydia’s head and his chin brushes Cora’s temple, he can see that their links to Peter and Derek are bright and golden, even between Lydia and Peter.  Sighing, he lets it go.  For tonight he’s not going to dwell on it too much, the blossoming connections he has to his pack mates are too valuable to him even after only a short time for him to find fault or problems in anyway.

 

After a moment, Cora says almost hesitantly. “Are you going to change me too?”

 

“Only if you want.”  Stiles reassures her, conscious of the way she lets her body sink deeper into his as he speaks.  “Maybe you should talk to Peter and Derek about it first.”

 

“Okay.”  She sounds relieved and he wonders if it’s memories of her Mom’s ability to fully shift that’s causing the slight niggle of anxiety and sorrow he can feel through the bond.  The way her gaze keeps being drawn to Derek’s wolf form, maybe it’s close enough to Talia’s that it’s painful to see.  He nestles her head more under his chin so she’s not tempted to keep looking and hugs her even tighter.  After a minute or two he can tell that anxiety and sorrow has nearly disappeared replaced by a sensation he can only describe as warm and really good.  Happiness maybe.  Understanding all that the bonds are sending him from each pack member is going to take a while to get used to he thinks, as they all experience emotions differently to one another.

 

When he feels that, knowing that all of his pack mates are safe and content through their bonds, his partial shift slides away effortlessly and Stiles runs his tongue over his teeth pleased to find that they are all even and regular as are his fingernails and his skin is perfectly normal, unmarked and not holding a trace of the luminescent glowing lines.  Glancing down, he can see that his chest is also bare of the design that had been glowing there so clearly even though he can still feel it, it’s like it’s been absorbed into his skin and is lying invisible just below the surface.

 

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’m starving.”  Stiles says, releasing his newest pack mates to check that his wallet is still in his back pocket and miracle of miracles it is.  “How about we order some food and get it delivered.  My treat.” 

 

“Stiles.  You don’t need to do that.  You maybe Alpha and that comes with an overwhelming instinct to provide, but you’re still a high school student too and the last time I checked it wasn’t particularly well-paying.”  Peter’s smooth tone comes from behind and Stiles yelps when he turns around to find the man completely naked.  From head to toe and everything in between, he didn’t even have one sock on - like how does that even happen, seriously?  You go from man to wolf and back again, clothes torn and shredded and not even one thread of fabric manages to hang on.

 

“Peter’s right.  We’ve got more than enough to fully fund the pack, Stiles.  Save your money.”  Derek says, as he looms behind Peter having risen from the floor and shifted in a rippling wave of receding black fur and realigning limbs and features.  That he’s as equally naked and unconcerned about it is more than Stiles’ poor little brain can cope with at seeing all the skin and muscle, the defined cut of their pelvises and…nope…nope he quickly turns away feeling heat burning his cheeks.

 

“Guh-“  Stiles begins, before swallowing trying to generate some spit in his suddenly dry mouth.  “Guys, can you please put some clothes on.”

 

Cora watches him in amusement and Lydia is simply staring at Peter and Derek in open appreciation. 

 

“Lydia.”  Stiles hisses in both envy and annoyance, as something possessive rears up wanting to snap and snarl at her and hide his wolves from her view even though that same something recognises her as pack.  “What are you doing?”

 

“Acclimatizing.”

 

“What?” 

 

“I’m accustoming myself to their bodies Stiles, you should probably think about doing it too.  You’ve given them the ability to fully shift into wolves so I imagine we’ll be seeing them naked a fair amount of the time.”

 

For the briefest of moments Stiles considers taking that ability back because God knows that it’s not going to be easy to see all of that…that masculinity on display.  Very potent, attractive masculinity at that, which is giving him a fluttering sensation low in his belly.  God, he hopes that the rest of the pack isn’t picking up on that or if they are they will kindly not mention it…like ever.

 

“It’s alright Stiles, we’ll go and put some clothes on.”  Derek says from directly behind him, amusement deepening his voice.  Stiles sighs.  Okay, so they picked up on it.  Damn it.  What’s a little humiliation between pack mates?  

 

Derek’s so close Stiles can feel the warmth radiating from his body and he wants to turn around so bad, it’s nearly killing him not to.  Looking down at the floor not willing to risk seeing something he really, really wants to, he frowns.  There’s a shard of glass near the toe of his shoe.

 

“Wait.  Don’t move.”  Turning he scans the scorch-marked floor, from where he'd grounded his magical charge, and sees dozens of broken pieces of glass scattered across it, wincing guiltily as he realises that he’d taken his little temper tantrum with the McCall Pack out on Derek’s loft.   

 

“What is it?”  Peter says warily, looking around the huge space and taking a step closer to Stiles as he does.

 

“No, no, no.  Don’t move I said.”  Peter freezes in place, muscles going deliciously taut, as Stiles points to the floor and the shattered glass.  “You two will cut your feet with no shoes on.”

 

Starting to cringe at sounding so Mom-like, he straightens up proudly when he remembers his Mom saying something so similar to him.  The decision to refuse to be embarrassed is easy then, because anyone would be lucky to have someone like her looking out for them, he knows he was. 

 

A look passes between Derek and Peter that he can’t interpret.  They’re communicating with their eyebrows and apparently understanding each other perfectly when they turn in sync towards him which makes the hair on his nape stand on end and a tingle ripple over his skin at being under their intense scrutiny.

 

“Stiles, we’re wolves.”  Peter says, matter of factly.

 

“We’ll heal.”  Adds Derek, a little frown of puzzlement tugging his lips downwards.

 

Sighing, Stiles rolls his eyes and watches from a mere thought all the glass fly up into the air spinning round and round and reforming the light globes piece by piece until they are complete and whole once more, before returning them to their fittings.  There’s a brief crackling buzz as they connect back to the mains and start to glow again. 

 

“Yes, yes I get it.  You maybe big strong macho wolves and you may heal, but I don’t ever want to see you get hurt.  Not if it can be helped, not if I can help it.”  He turns to include Cora and Lydia.  “None of you alright?”

 

He’s only satisfied when he gets a chorus of nods and yeses from his pack, conscious of the fond look he gets from Lydia and an approving smirk from Cora.  What shakes him to his core though is Peter’s slightly stunned expression which quickly becomes shuttered and the tinge of red that appears high on Derek’s cheekbones as he ducks his head avoiding eye contact.  It’s as though they can’t quite believe he cares.  Time will have to be the proof he guesses because somehow, as unlikely as Stiles’ first meetings with either of them would indicate, Peter and Derek Hale have ended up high on the list of people he gives a shit about.

 

“Thanks.  Uhh…for the cleaning up.”  Derek says roughly, before stalking away muttering something about ‘clothes’ under his breath as he does.  There’s a pulse of grief and regret that curdles in his gut from his bond to Derek and Stiles takes a step to follow the other man, only to stop when Peter takes his arm holding him back.

 

“Give him a moment.”  Peter says softly, as he catches Cora’s eye.  Nodding, Cora leads Lydia across the room and through the large hole in the wall that Derek had just disappeared through.  “He’s just had a first-hand lesson on how to be a good Alpha…we both have and I think Erica, Boyd and even Isaac are on his mind at the moment.”

 

“What?  Really?”  Stiles looks away from that gaping hole towards the wolf in almost disbelief.  “Look I know you guys can heal practically anything, but-“

 

“That’s not the point.”  Peter finishes for him and Stiles gives him the stink eye because that was word for word what he was going to say.  “Which is something that we hadn’t appreciated before, maybe it’s because we’re born wolves and we’ve never known any different or maybe it’s simply your humanity giving you a different perspective.  Either way Stiles it may take a little getting used to.”

 

Stiles licks his lips, relief coursing through him, swiftly followed by concern.  That wasn’t something that had occurred to him, he’d thought for a horrified instant that maybe Derek was regretting being part of his pack already and he doesn’t think he could’ve borne that.  Tomorrow maybe, but not tonight.

 

“I’m sure that you want to have a shower.  I’ll get you some clean clothes to change into and I think we’ll just have to burn what you’ve got on, thankfully there’s no salvaging them.  Plus, leave no evidence is a rule to live by.”  Peter’s smile is deceptively relaxed, it doesn’t match the taut line of his shoulders, but Stiles doesn’t call him on it.

 

“Firstly, plaid is a fashion classic and secondly, my Dad’s not going to get called to a crime scene in the woods that someone’s stumbled onto behind the McCall’s house then?  Because that would really suck.”  Stiles shoves the thought of his Dad having to put the cuffs on him to the way, way back of his mind.

 

“A classic maybe if you’re a lumberjack-“  Peter says reproachfully, but with a decidedly wicked glint in his eye.  “-and have a little faith, it’s been dealt with and at the nemeton.  There’s nothing left to find.”

 

“Blake too?”  Stiles has to ask, needs to know if she can come back and bite them on the ass.

 

Peter goes perfectly still as though he’s holding his breath. 

 

“Yes.”  He says carefully.  “I don’t like loose ends either.”

 

Stiles doesn’t know why he lifts his hand and places it onto Peter’s warm chest, can feel the heat burn high on his cheekbones at the eyebrow raise it draws from the other man, only knows that he has to.  The slightly elevated beat of Peter’s heart thumps against his palm.  That and the sliver of fear that’s passing through the bond between them lets Stiles know that Peter isn’t so calm and assured as he would appear

 

“Good.  She took my Dad, Peter…took him from me and hurt him and she needed to die for that.  She killed a lot of good people and I’m pretty sure she fucked up Derek with some seriously shitty sex magic which I doubt went hand in hand with consent.”  After his Dad had been found and there’d been a few hours of downtime keeping watch over him in his hospital room, Stiles had gone over in his head the confrontation at the loft.  He’d been able to put together a picture from the barely there threads of what had happened to Derek from his reaction and little things that he and Jennifer had let slip while she was being exposed as the monster she truly was.

 

“She raped him, I know for a fact there’s no way he would’ve been with her without being forced.”  Peter growls heatedly.  “I was too angry and I gave her too quick a death, I should have made her suffer a whole lot more.”

 

Stiles nods vigorously in agreement, anger curdling in his gut at the violation.

 

“We’ll need to keep an eye on him and see about some type of counselling. I don’t want him thinking it’s his fault, he does that far too much already.”  Bracing for an argument, much to Stiles’ relief Peter nods in agreement. Hesitating, he tries to find the right words for what he needs to ask, because he doesn’t want to take it for granted that Peter will agree.

 

“I don’t know how this role was regarded in the past…how you were regarded, but in this pack, our pack, it is and always will be an honoured one.  I don’t ask this lightly to do whatever you must to protect the pack and as Alpha I promise the burden won’t be yours alone.  I’ll also understand if you think you can’t.”  He can feel a little quiver through Peter’s body and he lets his thumb rub a delicate circle over his breastbone.  “I’m asking you Peter, will you be my Left Hand, my enforcer?”

 

“Yes.  Yes **_my_** Alpha.”  Peter says steadily, a possessive gleam in his eyes.  The sliver of fear in their bond has bled away to be replaced by satisfaction and pride and Stiles so wants to be worthy of that.

 

“Thank you.”  Letting his hand start to slide away from Peter’s chest, Stiles’ breath catches when Peter quickly grabs it and presses it hard against his flesh so he can feel the muscle and bone through the smooth texture of his hot skin.

 

“No, thank **_you_** Stiles.  Deucalion was next on my list of loose ends, not only because he was a threat.  Don’t think I wasn’t tempted to be an Alpha again because I was…badly.  You simply beat me to it.”

 

“Disappointed?”  Stiles feels compelled to ask.

 

“Not in the slightest.  You are magnificent, sweetheart.”  The sincerity is unmistakeable and Stiles can feel his cheeks burn, although he can’t be sure if it’s from the praise or the endearment and ducks his head.  Only to lift it just as quickly when Peter raises his hand from his chest to press his mouth softly to the back of Stiles’ knuckles.  It goes from soft and sweet to hot and dirty in an instant when Peter ignores the blood stains and kitten licks the sensitive skin between his fingers and Stiles jerks in shock.

 

“Peter-“  Stiles grinds out, a tingling warmth blooming low in his belly.  He doesn’t know what the fuck it means, if anything, or whether Peter’s simply toying with him, just because he’s Alpha doesn’t mean that Peter wouldn’t mess around with his head. 

 

“Like I said, magnificent.”  Peter lets go of his hand, his eyes serious and intent as they stare into his for what feels like forever.  “Go on.  Jump in the shower, I’ll get those clothes for you.”

 

With his tongue feeling like it’s been glued to the roof of his mouth, Stiles can only nod his agreement.  As he walks towards the bathroom, Peter calls his name and he turns around.

 

“By the way, you’re acclimatizing very well.”

 

“Huh?”

 

“You’ve just had a ten minute conversation with me, Stiles and I’m completely naked.”  Peter’s mouth curves into a sinful smile before he walks off, the flex of muscle in his thighs and the movement of his tight round buttocks is mesmerizing. 

 

“Clean towels are in the vanity under the sink.”  He throws over his shoulder.

 

“Acclimatizing…fucking bullshit.”  Stiles snorts, feeling a heavy warmth surge through his groin leaving him half-hard.  Although he had to admit, that in the intensity of the conversation and the concern he had for both men as their Alpha he’d known that they were naked and yet it hadn’t distracted him either or shaken his focus.  Maybe he could do it.  Then he remembers both Hales walking away from him and there’d been a distinct slapping noise of skin on skin with every step, something big and meaty hitting their thighs. Dear God.  He swallows hard.  Nuh uh, there’s no way he’s not gonna embarrass himself at some point.  He forces himself to think about something else.

 

Even when he’s standing alone in the well-fitted out plain white bathroom it takes him a minute to absorb what’s happened in such a short space of time and not just with Peter, but everything.  Defeating the Alpha Pack and the darach, being attacked by Deucalion, losing a friend and gaining a pack.  It’s almost all too much. Thank God, his Dad is still under observation at the hospital for severe dehydration and the stab wound he received from the darach, so he can at least rest easy that he’s safe and okay. 

 

The squawk he makes at seeing his apparently electrocuted hair in the mirror is obviously loud enough that the wolves of his pack can hear it and amusement filters through their bonds, even from Derek, so whether it was simply the comfort of pack or whatever Cora and Lydia had said to him specifically, it had worked.  Derek’s not overflowing with happiness, it’s more a steady neutral feel at the moment of not too good, but not too bad either.  It’s getting easier to not be overwhelmed by the bonds, they’re a comforting presence and a great gauge of how the pack is at any one time and he’s pretty sure that if any of them is under threat he’ll be able to tell instantly. 

 

Averting his eyes from the sight of the large rusty spatters covering his face and the sticky clumped together strands of his hair, he quickly toes the heels of his shoes sliding them off before tugging and yanking at his ruined clothes letting them fall in a heap on the floor.  When he sees the dirt and distinctive green stain of lichen on his hands it takes him a good long moment to get his mind back from what he'd seen with the nemeton to the here and now.  Somehow that moment out of time seems more real than anything else that’s happened to him today.

 

Shivering, he stands to one side of the shower head waiting for the hot water to come through and is grateful that it doesn’t take too long.  Squirting shower gel into his hand, he starts to wash off the stains on his skin.   Rubbing his chest, he wonders if Scott realises what that little empty space inside represents.  He wonders if Scott even realises that he broke their pack bond tonight.  Maybe, he thinks. 

 

On second thoughts, that’s probably giving him too much credit, so probably not.  Scott’s not been willing to listen to anyone aside from Deaton, anything that Derek, Peter or even Cora has said to do with werewolves has frequently been brushed aside as myth, lies or taken as an attempt to control him.  It’s quite clear that his wolf side is still very at odds with his human one if it’s making bonds that he’s not aware of and vice versa if his human nature can break them just as easily.  

 

Not that Stiles can talk, he hadn’t known either.  He looks back at those early days after Scott had first been bitten and realises that his uncanny intuition in knowing how Scott was feeling and helping him learn control was more often than not accurate and back then Scott had listened to him the majority of the time too.  Surely, that had been the bond at work. 

 

He’d not been able to see it like he had with his own pack mates, he’d certainly felt it though and he’ll never forget the sensation of it breaking.  If it had felt like a heart attack with just one person, he can’t bear to think of the agony that Derek, Peter and Cora had gone through having a hollow space being carved out inside them for each family member they lost.  Does it go away over time or is that emptiness there forever?  He hopes not for their sake and for his.  The new pack bonds certainly help.

 

Propping his forearm against the wall Stiles leans his head against it watching the water stream down his body, following its contours.  Scowling at the weak ass job of cleaning up he’d done, there was still dirt and things he’d rather not think about too closely still clinging stubbornly to his pale skin which is rapidly turning pink from the heat, but he just can’t seem to be bothered doing it over.

 

It’s soothing being under the hot water and gradually the tension that he’s been carrying releases and he just stands there trying not to think of anything really.  Not very successfully, because he keeps seeing the moment when Scott left with Allison and Isaac.  He didn’t look back, not even once.  Stiles knows because he couldn’t tear his eyes away.  He thinks if Scott had even glanced back for a split second that maybe he would’ve stopped him from leaving, maybe he would’ve forgiven him no matter how angry and betrayed he feels.  But, he didn’t look back.

 

His best friend and brother is gone.

 

When an arm encircles his waist and pulls him into the large warm body standing directly behind him, he realises he’s let go so much that he’s actually crying.  The tears sting his eyes and blur his vision, falling unchecked down his cheeks mixing with the stream from the shower head.  Stiles doesn’t startle when he feels the rasp of a beard against the nape of his neck, it’s a dead giveaway to who it is, as Derek gently mouths at the tender skin, not in desire rather a very wolf-like ‘I’m here.  Here for you’. 

 

The broad chest at his back presses against his shoulder blades and Derek’s hips cradle his ass protectively, surrounding him with his strength.  He can’t believe that he’s feeling the coarse brush of his wolf’s pubic hair tickling his skin and the silky hot weight of Derek’s soft cock against his crack and he wonders why he isn’t hard as a rock at the intimate contact himself, because Derek has been the star of a few dreams from which Stiles has woken up to freaked out, gasping for breath and sticky, but he’s really too miserable to dwell on it for long.

 

Turning him around, Derek draws him into his arms, tucking his head under his chin facing away from the spray.  Holding him so close as though it’s the only way he can keep him from hurting if he only holds on that little bit tighter.

 

“It’s okay baby.  I’ve got you…I’ve got you.”  Derek’s voice is sweet and low in his ear and Stiles can only think ‘yes you do, thank God’ when he remembers how many times Derek’s saved him before, so what’s one more regardless that it’s an emotional rescue rather than physical.

 

Giving himself permission, Stiles feebly wraps his arms around Derek’s waist and sobs into his shoulder for what feels like forever, until all the pain and bitterness has washed away down the drain.  When Derek washes his hair with scentless shampoo, there’s a comfort in the strong fingers threading through the tangled strands and massaging his scalp, it’s so relaxing he can feel his eyelids droop. 

 

As Derek washes his suddenly weighed down limbs with the shower gel and a small loofah, ensuring every last remnant of his ordeal is gone, Stiles can see Peter over his broad shoulder.  Stiles' left hand is dressed as casually as he’s ever seen him, in navy blue sweatpants and a well-worn Stanford t-shirt with a very loose neckline that scoops low on his chest. 

 

He leans against the bathroom vanity watching them both intently, the beautiful blue of his human eyes is shadowed with concern.  Draped over his shoulder is a faded red t-shirt and in his hands he holds a pair of sweatpants, so well-washed that they look almost white rather than grey, one leg inside out which he pulls back through without once taking his eyes off them.   Derek’s clothes, Stiles thinks.  If the shower stall had been even slightly bigger he’s pretty sure he’d have found himself with not just one werewolf in here with him, but two.

 

There’s worry and agitation pumping through the bonds from all of his pack mates.  Cora and Lydia aren’t anywhere to be seen, he suspects they may be waiting just outside the bathroom door which he’s grateful for.  Maybe at some point he’ll be a bit more used to the wolves and Lydia’s openness to nudity.  Some Alpha he is.  Right now he doesn’t want them to see him naked and broken down, he’s still only 17 and no one’s ever seen him like this before much less touched him as intimately as Derek’s doing. 

 

Somehow it’s okay though, here with Derek and Peter, there’s nothing sexual to it.  He’d be lying if he said he didn’t get a ‘zing’ at certain sections, however, on the whole it’s simply compassionate and tender which are not words he would’ve associated before with Derek Hale in any way, but he thinks maybe he can add them to the one word he has for a while now - ‘trust’, and he stands pliant and content under his hands.

 

When Derek turns off the taps and draws him out of the shower he’s squeaky clean and simply exhausted.  Derek kisses him chastely on the forehead, his lips soft and warm, as he helps Peter wrap a large bath towel around him before starting to dry himself off with his own.  Stiles feels like a child and it’s rather nice not to have to think about anything at all, these two powerful werewolves treating him as though he’s something infinitely precious and deserving of being so well-cared for. 

 

Peter dries him off quickly with gentle pats and starts to help him dress in the boxers, light cotton sleep pants and a well-washed t-shirt that proclaims ‘I heart NY’ that are in a neat pile on the vanity counter top.  Marvelling at how so very soft they are, he tugs the t-shirt down over his head and torso, but before it can settle at his hips Peter has his hands there, fingertips brushing lightly over his skin as he draws him in to where he’s resumed leaning back against the vanity and takes the weight of Stiles’ body against his own, his legs bracketing Stiles’. 

 

After hanging the damp towels on the rail, Derek dressed similarly slots in behind him, his thigh sliding between Stiles’ own.  He’s caught between the two men, surrounded by them entirely.  Their muscular bodies pressing into his own more slender one, leaving not a space or hollow between them.  The giddy thought that he’s the meat in a Hale sandwich makes him snicker aloud and Peter turns his head slightly at the sound from where he’s been nuzzling into the join between Stiles’ neck and shoulder.  His lips quirk into a smirk as though he knows what Stiles is thinking, before they graze Stiles’ jaw.

 

“How do you feel now, darling?”  Peter asks, pressing a little kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth making him shiver.

 

“Better…much better.”  He sends reassurances through the bonds and can feel the worry start to ease although there is still a lot of concern and he guesses until everyone sees that he’s okay that won’t abate soon.

 

“That’s good.  You were so sad.”  Derek pushes in closer from behind, his head over Stiles’ shoulder and rubs his cheek with his own like an affectionate cat.  The brush of his beard makes it tingle like mad with sensitivity and it occurs to Stiles that his wolves are scent marking him with a focused determination that borders on obsessive.  He suspects that the clothes he’s wearing are a combination from their individual wardrobes. 

 

“Grieving.”  Peter clarifies and Stiles nods in agreement at the term, his forehead thunking down onto Peter’s chest as he tries to steady his breathing. 

 

Control slipping at such close contact, Stiles can’t believe how incredible they smell, it’s a clean spicy musk that wraps around him and has him inhaling deeply discovering traces of other elements to it.  Crushed pine needles, morning dew and rich earth.  How has he never noticed before?  Their bodies are so warm and strong it makes him feel so sleepy and content, he’s never felt safer, Stiles could stay here between them forever.  Which is a problem because he’s feeling things, **_big_** things that aren't even hard and that he’s never felt before being pressed into his groin and ass that are making his own ‘thing’ twitch and start to plump out and if he wants to be able to look these men in the eye ever again he’d better move.

 

Easier said than done.  It seems they’re almost reluctant to release him when he starts to stir, no sooner does he untangle one of his hands when it’s been quickly ensnared again by the other wolf, over and over, keeping him in place.  He didn’t know that wolves could be so…wriggly.  After a few low rumbles of discontent that are breathed hotly into the sensitive skin of his throat and nape at his persistence, eventually he’s standing to one side.  Face burning and parts of him tingling that he didn’t know could. 

 

“Thanks.  Not just for-“  Stiles shrugs awkwardly, waving his hands between them.  “-but, you know for helping me through this whole thing with Scott.”  His heart clenches tight in his chest at saying his name and he wonders how long it will take before that stops and he’s suddenly furiously angry at Scott, at himself, at Deucalion, even at his pack and for the way they look at him as though he’s **_all that_** when really he’s so very obviously not.

 

“This is so nuts.  What the hell am I doing?  I can’t be an Alpha.”  He rounds on them sharply, wondering why the heck they can’t see it.  “Look at me, I’m fucked up, I’ll be a crap Alpha and you-“  He bites his lips and turns his head away, fighting back the fierce sting at the back of his eyes.  “You deserve better.”

 

“No.  We got what we deserved Stiles.  An Alpha that cares so much about his pack that he worries they’re going to get hurt regardless of their healing ability.  An Alpha that’s afraid he’s going to fuck up, well guess what buttercup –  Suck. It. Up.  That’s going to happen, it’s inevitable.”  Stiles stares at Peter, shaken by his angry tone.  

 

“At some point we’re all going to fuck up.  You, me, Derek, Lydia, Cora…all of us, because we may be other, but we’re human too and we make mistakes.  What makes a difference is what we are together.”  Peter says, his face and voice softening by the end.

 

“We’re pack Stiles.”  Derek’s certainty is irrefutable, there’s no disguising it, he can damn well feel it through their bond. For the first time Stiles actually thinks he really understands what Derek and Peter are saying, what they’ve always said.  That they will always have each other, always have each other’s backs and he’ll never be alone again.  It’s freeing and so powerful that for all the sadness and anger he’s felt recently, there’s a lightness now too.

 

Impulsively, he reaches out and lets his hands slide down each of their arms in appreciation knowing how tactile wolves are and the pleasure they receive in scent marking and being scented themselves.  Somehow his fingers end up tangled with theirs and he can feel a bloom of heat rise up his chest and settle in his cheeks when they don’t let go.  It’s like they’re holding hands with him in an almost boyfriend kind of way.  Both of them.

 

“What’s happening?  What is this?”  He has to ask, wriggling his fingers wildly, because he needs to know.  “The kissing and the ‘darling’ and ‘baby’…is it…is it just a pack thing, a wolf thing or is it something else?  ‘Cause if it’s like a freaky let’s-haze-the-new-Alpha to get me hoping for-”  He stops abruptly and looks at the two men with wide eyes and asks himself, what **_is_** he hoping for?

 

“Can it be something as simple as we like you?”  Peter asks without the mocking tone that Stiles would expect to accompany an answer like this, but he’s as serious as Stiles has ever heard him. 

 

Derek squeezes his fingers gently.  “And maybe that you like us too.”

 

“Oh.”  Stiles is stunned and pleased and there are so many conflicting, contrary feelings and emotions running through him that he feels giddy.

 

“We’ve always liked you sweetheart.  You’re brave, loyal, ruthless and intelligent which are qualities that we wolves admire very much, add in that you’re gorgeous and you are nigh on irresistible.”

 

Stiles blinks rapidly as he lets Peter’s words sink in because no one’s wanted him that way before and he can’t help the squeaky pitch of disbelief to his voice when he asks “Really?”

 

Oh yeah.  He’s the Alpha, he thinks wryly.

 

“Yes really.”  Derek insists firmly.  “We were going to talk to you after you turned 18, but tonight you claimed us.”  His eyes flash blue as he stares fixatedly at Stiles’ mouth, his nostrils flaring wide when Stiles sucks on his lower lip from nerves.  Derek’s grip tightening gently, as he slowly but inexorably starts to pull on Stiles’ hand to draw him in closer.

 

Peter reaches over and cups Derek’s jaw, letting his thumb brush over Derek’s lips back and forth as he slowly turns his face towards him.  Stiles is half-tempted to pat his body down, surely there must be spot fires to put out all over him, as Peter redirects the scorching hunger of Derek’s gaze away.

 

“Our wolf instincts are telling us that you claimed us and we claimed you right back and they’re being quite…insistent that we do something about it.”  Peter explains, his thumb tugging Derek’s lower lip down exposing his white even teeth before he lets go and Stiles is pretty sure his eyes are bulging because there was no mistaking the flicker of Derek’s pink tongue over the tip of Peter’s thumb. 

 

Derek audibly swallows hard, a shudder passing through him as he licks his lips, his grip loosening on Stiles’ hand, but not letting go.  Stiles has to fight the urge to squirm as arousal winds even tighter low in his groin.

 

“Not that we can’t control it.”  Peter continues, his voice low and gravelly.  “We can.  We can be patient for as long as we need, but there’s just been so many changes recently it would be unfair to all of us if we rushed things and ruined everything.”

 

Stiles’ head is spinning.  Out of all the things that have happened today including the fact that he’s now apparently an Alpha to a pack that currently stands at 3 surly wolves and 1 scary banshee (he’s pretty sure he’s going to be adding 1 County Sheriff to the tally, but he’d like to actually ask him first in person).  This is the point where his mind simply can’t accept anymore.  Derek and Peter Hale are telling him that they want him…like WANT him in 10 foot high flaming capital letters and they’d had a plan.  A plan that involved him turning 18 and then…Stiles’ brain fries right at that point.

 

“So you want to wait until we settle into our pack roles first and get to know each other better…then what?  I have to choose?”  Stiles says aloud trying to ignore the high reedy tone that’s somehow emerging from his mouth and work out what they could possibly have in mind.  Somehow he manages to tug his hand free of Derek’s or rather his wolf lets him go sensing his increasing agitation.

 

“Of course you have a choice, darling.  We wouldn’t force you to be with us, no matter how much we want it…want you.”  Peter’s voice deepens to something so low and guttural that Stiles’ belly clenches.  “I know biting McCall like I did may give you second thoughts, but I assure you in my right mind or close to it that mutual consent is an absolute must.”  Peter’s expression hasn’t changed one bit, but in Stiles’ mind it’s like a shadow has fallen across his face or maybe it’s simply the hurt that he’s receiving through their shared bond that makes him perceive it that way. 

 

“That’s not-“  Stiles’ mind races ahead of his tongue, because if they didn’t mean choose between them then…holy crap.  First, he needs to reassure his wolf.  “Peter, I know you’re not a rapist whether it’s your dick or your fangs, when you offered me the bite it would’ve been so easy for you to ignore my wishes, but you didn’t.”

 

Derek stares at him hard, his eyebrows suddenly lifting in surprised understanding, before shaking his head.  “Oh…no, no. Stiles, you don’t have to choose between us.”  Derek waves a hand at Peter and himself.  Peter whose mouth hangs open in dawning realization.

 

“I don’t.”  Stiles chokes out, sure that he’s misunderstanding entirely.  Only he can’t be, not if he’s reading the impressions he’s getting through their bonds right.  There’s a longing that has him on the edge, it could be for anything really because he can’t tell what it’s specifically for, only that it’s a bone deep want.  Then there’s hope and relief, loyalty and pride and tethering them all together is the slow burning ember of need and desire that only has to be gently fanned to turn into a constant gnawing ache.

 

“I’m so sorry Stiles I should’ve realised that you wouldn’t be aware of this. I know you’ve been researching a lot to do with our world-“

 

“Peter.”  Stiles says the wolf’s name gently. 

 

“-particularly the traditions and culture of wolves, so I just assumed that you would understand what we meant in this instance about mate triads and there’s even been a few recorded quads-“

 

“Peter.”  He tries again more firmly, because there’s a desperation to the babble that’s tumbling out of Peter’s mouth seemingly uncontrollably, matching the slightly wild cast to his eyes and it’s wrong, so very wrong.  It’s not Peter, not the cool unflappable man with a razor sharp tongue and scathing wit that Stiles has come to know, and Stiles doesn’t want to be the reason that the wolf is feeling so insecure as to not be himself.

 

“-but now I think about it there’s only a few texts that would refer to this in particular which I’ll have to lend to you….mmmf-“

 

Stiles grabs hold of Peter’s t-shirt with both hands, dragging him into his body and presses his lips against Peter’s in an awkward but determined kiss, which answers the question about his strength, because there’s no way he’d be able to do that normally.  Stiles isn’t super experienced, not by a long shot, but there’s something gratifying in the way Peter hungrily surges into it without hesitation, his hands sliding over Stiles’ body possessively, holding him tight and demanding everything Stiles has to give with his mouth.  It goes on and on, his body awakening to feelings and desires that he thought he understood, but only now does he realise how ignorant he truly is.

 

Stiles pulls back gasping for air, his body undecided as to what it craves more – oxygen or Peter’s lips – only to find a strong hand on the back of his neck turning him, guiding him towards a third option.   Struggling not to let his eyelids flutter closed, Stiles absorbs the brilliant colours of blue, green and brown that mix and make Derek’s eyes so very stunning as he draws him close, cupping his face with his big, warm hands and kisses him.  With one hand Stiles still holds on tight to Peter’s shirt and with his other he slides it over Derek’s shoulder to rake his fingers through the short hair at the nape of his neck, eliciting a shiver and a low whine from his wolf.

 

Where Peter is in control and dominates the kiss giving and taking pleasure without mercy, Derek coaxes and teases at his mouth wildly with little nips and delicate licks until his lips are wet and tingling, parting helplessly to allow Derek to slide his tongue in and stroke over his, tasting him deeply.  Derek slowly almost reluctantly draws away, capturing Stiles’ lower lip between his teeth and gently tugging before releasing it and Stiles is left panting and trembling between the two Hales.

  

“’s this how it’s gonna be al’time?”  Stiles slurs in pleasure.  “Gonna kiss me stupid?”

 

“Yes.”  Peter and Derek say practically simultaneously, with a quiet seriousness that sends a quiver through Stiles’ body at the promise.

 

“Awesome.” 

 

Stiles nods in approval, blinking the kiss-induced haze away to clearly see the two wolves before him partially shifting under the obvious effects of arousal.  Derek’s neck and face is red as he breathes shallowly through his open mouth, his clawed hands flexing open and closed, over and over.  Peter’s nostrils are flaring with every heaving breath and his eyes are glittering with heat, the pupils blown big and wide.  They’re both tenting out the front of their sweatpants obscenely and Stiles can only swallow heavily because…dayum.

 

“Slow.”  He chokes out, his own cock jerking so badly he’s pretty sure it looks like he’s stuffed a live gerbil or something like it down the front of his pants.

 

“We’re going slow right?”  If he’s honest with himself he can admit to being scared and horny and so out of his depth that he feels like he’s been tipped into the deep end of the pool and can’t touch the bottom.  He’s so exhausted, both physically and emotionally, that he doesn’t think he could or should make any decisions about his body right now that he might or might not regret later on and doesn’t that make him all mature and shit.

 

“As long as we need, Stiles.”  Derek’s skin remains flushed pink as his shift slides away, there’s an earnestness to his expression that reassures Stiles.  “It’s not just a hook up or an itch to scratch, it feels like more…like it could be a whole lot more and I…we want to give us a chance.”

 

“Think of it like a courtship.”  Peter nods his head in agreement.  “Just like this to start with, hugs and kissing, simply being together.  Maybe some dates with all three of us and maybe some just one on one.  Whatever feels right for all of us.”

 

“It’s like that Navy Seal movie you really like, no one gets left behind.”  Stiles is surprised that Derek remembers watching it with he and Isaac one night, before the other boy became the douchiest of best friend stealers, when even the wolves collapsed with exhaustion after searching through a large sprawling section of warehouses for Erica and Boyd during the day.  Derek’s face is almost grim with determination as he moves in closer to Peter’s side.  “I did that once, never again.  Only when we’re ** _all_** ready do we move forward together.”

 

Stiles listens and feels some of the worry and tension seep out of his body as he thinks about the logistics of it all, being in a relationship with not just one but two werewolves.  Two extremely hot werewolves. 

 

“This isn’t a ‘V’ relationship is it?”  Stiles asks hesitantly, worried that he’s misreading everything entirely.  He’s read about polyamory relationships and the various configurations that they can be and what he senses between Derek and Peter doesn’t feel like a platonic bond with him as the centre pivot.  Not that he would want that he thinks.

 

Worry ripples through the bonds.  “No Stiles it’s not.”  Derek says cautiously, as if he’s pulled the pin on a live grenade. 

 

“So until I’m old enough, you’ll be-“  Stiles breaks off, not sure if he really wants to know.  Not because he’s disgusted or outraged that they’ve found something with each other that’s not a societal norm, rather there’s something very possessive in the way he regards Peter and Derek.  Something that could quite easily slip into jealousy imagining the two of them together…doing things without him when the thought of watching them together makes the tip of his dick wet.

 

“No darling.”  Peter watches him knowingly.  “I won’t lie and say we haven’t done a few things, but that was before we realised that we were both looking at you the same way and seeing the same thing…how perfect you are, so we decided to take a step back until we spoke to you.”

 

“Oh…okay.”  Stiles breathes out shakily as a warm glow spreads throughout his chest.  No one’s ever thought of him as perfect, not since his Mom, it’s always been ‘can’t you be like-‘, ‘can you not-‘, ‘don’t be so-‘.  That Peter and Derek see him and everything he is and they like it is so beyond anything he’d ever thought could happen to him when it came to relationships.  He’s not sure he can believe it.

 

“In close knit packs it’s not uncommon for pairings to form between siblings or close relations.  There were times in the past when it just wasn’t safe to bring outsiders, humans, into a pack and wolves are tactile creatures, Stiles.  We crave touch and intimacy, we hunger for a mate or mates, so it’s very easy for pack bonds and/or family bonds to sometimes turn into something more.  We accept it, what’s not acceptable is when it’s made by force or under the age of consent for one or both parties.”  Peter explains.

 

“What about the children born from such matings?”  Stiles wonders aloud, there’s a practical reason that such relationships are frowned upon.

 

“Our werewolf DNA with its healing doesn’t allow for genetic abnormalities or defects to be carried or passed on.  Each child is perfect.”  Stiles nods in understanding at Derek’s explanation, it makes sense that their inherent healing abilities prevents such a thing from happening.

 

“So…you and Peter are mates?”  That was a hard thing to wrap his head around after everything that’s gone down, all the death and mistrust between the Hales had been so very apparent.  There had certainly not been any signs that their relationship was beyond the Uncle and nephew one of sarcastic antagonism.  “How long have you known?”

 

It takes a few seconds for Stiles to realise that Peter’s not answering, his expression frozen and his eyes lifeless - lacking that familiar wicked glint.  He’s so still that Stiles is afraid for him, it doesn’t look like he’s even breathing and he wonders if this is how he appeared to his wolves not more than a couple of hours ago.  No wonder they’d been so freaked. 

 

“Peter.”  Stiles says his name worriedly.

 

Derek leans in, resting his forehead against Peter’s so he can look straight into the beautiful crystal blue of his human eyes.  “It’s okay Peter, I’m here.  I’ll always be here, no one’s going to take me away from you, never again.” 

 

Peter gasps aloud, as though he’s swum up from the depths and has burst through the surface to take a long-awaited breath.  Nodding over and over he clutches at Derek, fingers hooking into the fabric of his clothes and Stiles can hear them start to tear.  Derek simply holds him even tighter, arms wrapped around him and submissively tilts his head to one side to allow his throat to be scented.  Peter makes an anguished sound and starts to nose along the line of Derek’s neck aggressively, sucking in greedy gulps of air.

 

Through the bonds is pain, emotional pain so deep and undefinable that Stiles has to pant through his open mouth just to breathe.  The pain is swiftly followed by what he can only describe as such intense relief that Stiles’ legs threaten to buckle swiftly followed by a feeling that has his eyes widen in astonishment.  Love.  This is what love feels like from someone else’s heart.  It’s wonder laced with desire, loyalty sweetened by joy, surrender fuelled by need and sacrifice binding it all.  If he’d ever wondered at Peter’s ability to think and feel beyond his own self-interest he has the proof now.  That there’s elements very similar to when Peter and Derek’s regard is directed at him leaves him shaken at the potential.

 

Derek soothes Peter, holding him tight and nuzzling into his temple before sweeping his lips down the side of his face, whispering into his skin ‘I’m here, I’m here’ over and over.  Derek nips at Peter’s jawline drawing out a ragged moan, before claiming his mouth in a kiss that’s so raw and hungry that Stiles can’t look away.  It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen in his life.

 

It’s a long time before they ease their lips apart and Stiles’ fingers tremble uncontrollably pressed against his mouth, barely holding back a moan, as he tries to calm the fuck down, will his erection away and figure out what the hell just happened.

 

Yeah, there’s no way he’s gonna figure this out on his own, so he asks.  “What the hell just happened?”

 

“Thank you my sweet boy.”  Peter rubs the tip of his nose back and forth against Derek’s before turning to Stiles.

 

“The only thing I can equate it to is a type of PTSD, it locks me into the past.”  A shudder passes through Peter, his expression grim as he raises an eyebrow at Derek who nods his head encouragingly.  Taking a deep breath Peter continues. 

 

“When I came back from the dead, I came back with some extra memories.  Memories that Talia had taken from me, not all of them mind you, but enough that a few holes were suddenly filled including the most important one.”  Derek slips his hand into Peter’s and squeezes tightly, the bonds between them all flooding with reassurance from the wolf.  Stiles can feel the tension in his shoulders ease slightly, but the need to protect them, even from the past, coils tight in his chest.

 

“Do you remember when Cora told you about how Derek and I were trapped by Hunters at the nemeton for a couple of days?”  Peter asks.  Stiles nods, that’s one strange enigmatic conversation that he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget, with all the questions it raised rather than answered.  “It was there, us together, protecting and comforting one another that I realised why I’d always been so interested in Derek, had always found time to hold him…to play with him from the moment he was born.  Why seeing Derek and Paige together had been so gutting.  How obsessed I was…am”  Peter admits, voice turning thick.

 

“He’s my mate.”  Peter’s eyes shine brightly as they look at the man next to him.  “I was overwhelmed and filled with feelings and urges that seemed undeniable, but Derek was only 15 and I needed help…help from my Alpha to control myself.  I went to Talia and told her what I believed and at first she seemed shocked then resigned after I wore her down, but ultimately accepting.  Her only proviso being that I waited until Derek was of age before approaching him which was understandable and I was desperate to honour that, not to give her any reason to deny us.  Pups until their late teens aren’t fully in control of their wolves.  Inadvertently shifting, their senses can be all over the place and while pack bonds are easily identifiable, any difference or change to one beyond the superficial amidst a number of bonds isn’t so easy for a young one to detect.  The good thing was that Derek seemed to be as drawn to me as I was to him, although he didn’t know why.”

 

Stiles takes a shaky breath because this is so not what he’s expected to hear.

 

“She blindsided me only a few days later.”  Peter lifts his hand where it’s entwined with Derek’s so tightly and kisses the back of it so gently and reverently that Stiles swallows down his own longings with difficulty.  “Took my memory and nearly destroyed me.  I left, searching for something that I couldn’t define, my wolf and I only knew that we needed something that we couldn’t find.  For nine months I criss-crossed the country in wolf form and had fallen into such despair that I barely made it back to our territory, exhausted and nearly broken.  I’d not even been home a month when the fire started.”

 

“It was only after Peter left that I felt I’d been hollowed out, empty of everything.  I didn’t know what was happening, I thought it was grief still for Paige.”  Derek’s lips twist with pain as he continues from his point of view.  “I didn’t know that I was grieving for Peter.  Kate came and told me all the things I wanted to hear…you know the rest.”

 

Stiles does know the rest and he wishes Talia was here so he could punch her in the face.  If Peter’s memory hadn’t been tampered with he would’ve stayed and been his usual ‘creeperwolf’ self and stalked Derek as he did when Paige was in the picture and there’s no way he would’ve let Kate get away with her manipulations.

 

“Even after the fire and all the years of separation those feelings, that compulsion to be close to each other hadn’t gone away.  We’ve become very different men than we would’ve been if we’d still been surrounded by our family.  We’re almost strangers and not at the same time so the attraction was-”

 

Peter raises an eyebrow at Derek’s pause.  “Unexpected.”  He offers and that seems to be the right word as Derek quickly nods in agreement.

 

“And hard fought.  Peter came back with this memory which he tried to explain to me and I didn’t want to listen at first even though my wolf was howling for him once I understood.  Our history together-”  Derek’s voice breaks and even if Stiles didn’t share a bond with these men he’s pretty sure he’d be able to pick up the sadness that pours off them.  “We’ve literally done the worst to each other that anyone possibly can.”  Derek explains, voice rough.

 

“Now it’s time to do the best.”  Peter says, lifting Derek’s hand to his mouth again, tilting it slightly to expose the wrist and lightly brushes his lips over the tender blue-veined skin drawing out a low hitching rumble from Derek’s chest.  It’s so reminiscent of when Peter offered to turn him in the parking garage that long ago night that Stiles wonders if he misread exactly what was on the table back then.  He doesn’t think he made a mistake in refusing it though.  Not then.

 

Stiles never ever thought he’d witness how soft Derek and Peter’s expressions become when they look at each other and just when he starts to feel a little bit weird and that maybe he’s intruding, they turn to face him.  There’s a fondness that he can see and feel through the bond as they regard him, an affection that steadily increases until the word is simply not enough to describe it correctly, not that he dares to try and think of one that does - the intimacy of it has him rooted to the floor.  He can’t move, daren’t move in case the fragility of the moment is shattered.

 

“You have that same compulsion with me?”  Stiles asks tentatively, his wolves nodding their heads vigorously before he’s even finished asking the question.  He’s not sure what to think of that when he recalls that strangely frenzied explanation that Peter gave about wolf triads and quads.  Quads?  He doesn’t think he can even go there.  What stands out like a giant red flag is that Peter had linked ‘mates’ to them.  A mate triad. 

 

Swallowing hard, Stiles tries to picture it, a relationship with Derek and Peter beyond that of Alpha and pack.  How is it possible and does he even want it?  There’s no denying what every part of his body and mind are telling him, yes he does.  With that realisation, something shivers deep inside him, starting to pace back and forth anxious for contact.  A whine building at the back of his throat.  A plea.

 

Maybe it’s experience, maybe they’re simply braver than he is, but surprisingly nothing falls apart when they draw him into their arms where it’s so very warm and safe in answer.   He doesn’t feel separate from them, doesn’t feel like an awkward third wheel.  He’s a part of something, a vital equal part just as Peter and Derek are.

 

“Be with us.”  Peter whispers against the sensitive rim of his ear.

 

“Please.”  Derek breathes against Stiles’ collarbone he’s just exposed by tugging the neck of his t-shirt aside.

 

Hard bodies, gentle hands, warm lips they surround him, stroking and nuzzling, and Stiles lets his eyes flutter closed.  It feels so good, so honest and genuine that he can’t deny that he wants this, wants to try so badly it hurts.

 

Opening heavy lidded eyes Stiles lets his own hands wander, threading his fingers through the short hair at the napes of their necks.  Scratching lightly with his nails, he feels the shudders that pass through their bodies and tips his head back letting them scent his throat more easily, delighting in the knowledge that he affects them so fiercely.  The Alpha wolf inside him rumbles happily and Stiles acknowledges what that part of him is sharing, that he will never bare his all-too vulnerable throat like this to anyone else ever.

 

“Yes.”  Stiles groans.  “Yes, I want to be with you.”

 

“Stiles.”  Peter says his name reverently while Derek quivers, seemingly unable to speak and simply presses his face harder into the hollow of Stiles’ throat, breath hot and shallow on his skin.

 

“With both of you.”  Stiles adds, just in case it wasn’t clear. The low growls of approval that statement receives vibrate straight through his body.

 

“Expect us to be tempted though.”  Peter whispers, licking and nipping at the strained cord of tendon in Stiles’ throat.

 

“God…yes.”  Derek mouths at his collarbone, sucking determinedly at the skin there.  Stiles trembles uncontrollably as every nerve ending catches fire and he clutches at his wolves in desperation, afraid he’s going to shatter apart.  Realising, he’s close to the edge, Peter hums soothingly as Derek gently nuzzles his temple, letting him calm down.

 

After a few minutes being held and surrounded by his wolves Stiles can almost breathe normally again, with his heart no longer thundering in his chest and his dick still swollen, but no longer feeling like he could hammer nails, he becomes aware of a rapidly rising sense of impatience and annoyance which is beyond the relief and contentment from Peter and Derek.

 

“You can come in.”  Stiles doesn’t bother to raise his voice, not when there’s a wolf at the door.  Cora and Lydia open the door so fast that they nearly fall into the bathroom.

 

If there were any doubts as to how this would be received by the two women they’re gone almost immediately when he’s surrounded by them, tightly embraced and half-dazzled by the beaming smiles of approval.

 

“Lucky boy.”  Lydia waggles her eyebrows at him lecherously as she kisses his cheek.  “I think they’ll be good for you.”  She adds after observing the joyous hugs of congratulation that Cora’s bestowing on her brother and uncle.  Their transparent happiness is a soothing balm to the shit-fest of Scott’s betrayal and abandonment.  Stepping to one side Stiles leans in to whisper in her ear while the others are distracted.

 

“You don’t think it’s weird?  Not only do I have two boyfriends, but they’re nephew and uncle.”  Stiles asks, because maybe his perspective is askew seeing as he’s seriously in lust and probably more with both men.

 

“No, you’ve always struck me as being more interested in the person regardless of who they are, that Peter and Derek happen to be related is irrelevant as to what you feel for them and what you get from a relationship with them.”  Lydia replies instantly.  “I think they need you Stiles and I’m not just talking about sex either, I think you give them strength…Derek to be more confident in his decisions and not second-guess himself all the time and Peter…letting him know that he’s not isolated and alone in being willing to do anything to protect what he cares about.  The bonds have certainly given me a different perspective of them considering our history.”  Stiles winces when he thinks about it, she’s not wrong, the very worst being both of his wolves have tried to kill her at some point.

 

“There’s more to them than I first thought and I’m finding that all the Hales have incredibly good taste.”  She says lightly, diffusing the awkwardness.

 

“I could say the same of you.  Cora’s pretty amazing.”  Stiles drapes his arm companionably around her shoulders, eyeing her red kiss-swollen lips.  “I didn’t know you liked girls too.”

 

Lydia tilts her head to one side to look up at him her hand reaching up to hold his where it hangs down over her collarbone.  “You saw a lot about me that no one else did Stiles, but not all.”  She smiles enigmatically and squeezes his hand lightly.

 

Stiles nods in agreement, he can see that clearly now as he looks across to where his two wolves are laughing and talking to Cora in a way he’s never seen before.  He glances down at Lydia who’s also watching the Hales, although her gaze lingers on Cora.  This is more than he ever dreamed of and somehow he thinks that this was meant to be, that she was always meant to simply be his friend.

 

 

Stiles stirs awake to find himself in Derek’s bed, tangled up in a sprawl of bodies.  His pack, he realises, feeling warm and comfortable and somewhat smug too.  It’s still dark, but he doesn’t need to see to know that it’s Derek curled into him on one side and Peter partially pinning him down on the other. 

 

The last thing he remembers clearly is devouring a couple of cartons of Beef Lo Mein and rice from the Golden Dragon leaving him sleepy and sated with his wolves sitting either side of him on the battered couch, letting him lean into them. 

 

He doesn’t know what’s woken him up, there’s just an awareness of danger and alarm that’s making the hackles on his wolf rise.  Something unwelcome is pressing against the barrier of wards he’d created in his mind to surround the building, keeping his pack safe. 

 

It’s subtle.  A gentle barely there brush against his magic, a little test, that he thinks wouldn’t be noticed by those who didn’t possess the instincts of an eternally vigilant Alpha wolf.  It’s equally instinctive that his spark lashes out almost sentient in its outrage of being nearly nullified by these two intruders and he doesn’t hold back. 

 

There’s a pained cry and a distinct yelp in response and Stiles smiles content that he’s made his point and they won’t try anything again.  At least for the moment because Scott’s so very stubborn and Deaton’s a dick.

 

Opening his eyes he realises that Lydia and Cora are still asleep draped heavily over his lower legs, but Peter and Derek are watching him with glowing blue eyes, stunning and eerie in the darkness, bodies tense and primed to attack.

 

“I think I’m going to have to kill them.”  Peter’s lip curls viciously.

 

“Not by yourself.”  Derek snarls.

 

“Guys, they won’t be back…not tonight anyway.”  Stiles soothes his wolves, rubbing his fingers in a firm caress over Derek’s hip and stroking Peter’s silky hair with the other.   “My wards won’t break.”

 

Peter huffs in disappointment while Derek rumbles steadily like a low throttled engine.

 

“They’ll be back though.” 

 

Stiles grimaces at Peter’s statement before sniffing in annoyance because he’s not wrong.

 

“I’m not wrong.”  Peter echoes his thoughts so accurately that Stiles side-eyes him warily.

 

“No you’re not.  I don’t want to hurt them-“

 

Derek snorts.

 

“Well not much.”  Stiles qualifies.  “I don’t see how we can remain in the same territory without someone getting hurt…worse.”

 

“Deaton knows now anyway.”  Derek adds.

 

“Knows what?”  Stiles asks in bewilderment as Derek and Peter exchange a look full of understanding.

 

“Just how powerful you are, darling.  You created wards without being taught and purely from the force of your will, if we can recognise that, then Deaton definitely has.  I think one of the first things we need to do is to find a way to prevent anyone from trying to nullify you again.” 

 

“Or trying to take your power from you for themselves.”  Lydia stretches and yawns, a sharpness underlying the sleepy tone.  

 

Stiles looks at the pair of them aghast as Peter nods his head in agreement.  “Seriously?  You think Deaton would try that.”

 

Cora stirs and presses her face into Lydia’s breastbone with a protesting growl at being woken.

 

“Yes.”  His pack choruses and Stiles lifts his head up slightly from the pillow of Derek’s shoulder.  They’re all watching him and he flops back.

 

“Yeah, of course they would.”  Stiles murmurs softly.  Because it wouldn’t be just Deaton.  He lets it sink in that yes it’s highly probable that Deaton and Scott would go on the offensive and if that happens, while Stiles may wish to bitch slap some Goddamn common sense into both of them repeatedly, there’s no guarantees that someone wouldn’t get seriously hurt or worse and he doesn’t want that.  His ‘give a fucks’ about Scott and Deaton are gone, but that doesn’t mean he wants Melissa to be hurt by any fallout.

 

Lydia’s been lying with his thigh hard pressed into her back, she twists and rolls so that she can drape her forearm over his hip and waist, resting her chin on it as she talks.  That her head is the closest a girl’s ever been to his dick in real life, the loose fall of her curls splaying across his belly, crosses his thought processes for the barest second before he instantly and easily dismisses it.  The heat from Peter’s groin hard against his hip and the weight of Derek’s hand on his chest, fingertips just barely brushing his nipple beneath his t-shirt, is ten times, a hundred times more arousing and he has to concentrate really hard not to react to their touch.

 

“I know you’ve got nearly as many credits as I do to finish school already Stiles.  If we graduate early we can leave the area and get some breathing space.  I know you were thinking about some schools on the East coast and I’ve got an interview lined up at MIT.” 

 

“That’s a pretty good idea.  We can plan what we’re going to do and research how we can protect you and your magic.  I still have contacts with the local pack in Boston which could help if MIT is where you want to go.”  Peter concludes, smiling in genuine approval at Lydia who tentatively returns it with a small one of her own.  He wonders if he should be nervous at the thought of the two of them in cahoots together, probably he thinks, between them they could easily take over the world.

 

Leave Beacon Hills.  He’d thought about it, obviously, with College on the horizon and more recently the massive supernatural shit-fest that the place had become and the number of times he’d thought he was about to die, which was a number way beyond counting with all his fingers AND toes, had made it a more and more attractive proposition.  The only worry he’d had was about those left behind, now he guesses that he’s really only got the one concern and that’s his-

 

“Your Dad’s a good man, Stiles.”  Derek’s hand rests on his belly and he starts to rub slow circles over the top of his t-shirt with his thumb when Stiles stiffens taken aback that his wolf has been able to all too easily tell where the direction of his thoughts is heading.  “A good lawman and he’s made a commitment to the people of Beacon Hills.  We can always stay, we’ll find a way.”

 

The more he thinks about his Dad the more he realises that in some respects he’s very similar to an Alpha in his role as Sheriff and he knows that it’s more than just a title to him, it’s who he is.  The Deputies under his command are like his pack and he worries and cares about each of them as much as any wolf does, exactly as Stiles does for the people surrounding him on this bed, his own pack.  He has to respect that if he expects to receive it in return.

 

Placing his hand over the top of Derek’s he lets his fingers slot in between his wolf’s, stilling the soothing motions he’s making simply holding him close.  Glancing around he sees the nods of agreement the rest of the pack make at Derek’s suggestion.  These people, his pack mates, have been through so much here in Beacon Hills and that they’re willing to stay for him and his Dad makes his chest ache and his throat go tight and it takes him a moment before he can even speak. 

 

“I’ll talk to Dad and see what he wants to do.  If he stays I’ll make sure he’s protected in every way possible.”  The many and varied ways he could do it run through his mind from all the research he’s done on exactly that situation, he’d always hoped that eventually he’d be magically strong enough to make it possible.  A protection charm would be a good start, he thinks.

 

“What about Cora though, she won’t be finished with school?  And what about the territory…our territory.”  Stiles gnaws on his lower lip, guilt spiralling through his belly at the thought of uprooting them all, especially after all his big talk of territories with Scott and reclaiming it for the Hale Pack.

 

“Hey, I’m right here.  None of this, what about Cora?  I was intending to redo this year anyway and that could be done anywhere not just Beacon Hills.”  Cora pushes up to lean on her elbow and scowls at him over Lydia’s shoulder.  “If it’s not Deaton, it’ll be someone else Stiles looking to take what’s yours.  We’re not going to let that happen.  You’re pack.  You’re ours Stiles, our Alpha.  Just like the territory is ours and always will be.”

 

“You’ve given that back to us today, I can feel it and someday we…I may be ready to come back, until then I just want us to be together, us protecting us and nothing else…no territories or towns, no woods or nemetons.  Just us.”  Derek huffs out a ragged breath.  “I know that’s selfish, but-“  His face crumples and he turns away.  Immediately Stiles and the pack reach out touching and stroking Derek’s face and hair, his arms, softly telling him how much they love and care for him.  Lydia’s eyes shimmer as she comforts the wolf and Stiles swallows the lump in his throat, he can feel the guilt and anguish pouring through the bond from Derek and counteracting it is all the love and acceptance from his pack.  Knowing that Derek feels like this and would still stay if he decided to because of his Dad makes the decision suddenly so much easier.

 

Sucking in a shaky breath as he sees all the faces of his pack turned to him expectantly, he can feel their belief in him as much as he has in them and it gives him strength.  Strength to do what’s right for his pack.  They’re all so vulnerable in differing ways and he just wants to protect them so badly, it’s a physical ache inside.  He can’t ignore the pack bonds that have been filled with a hopeful longing whenever leaving Beacon Hills is mentioned, not from just one or two of his pack mates, but all of them – even Peter. 

 

If they need a reason to leave he can give them one, so they can heal where there isn’t a memory lurking around every corner, which even he admits to himself he needs and tomorrow he’ll tell them they don’t need to protect his magic.  He doesn’t know how he knows this, the knowledge is somehow just there, available to him and seeing everything else he’s done instinctively tonight has worked then he’s going to trust whatever this is.  While his spark may have been in danger of being taken or nullified once, the hybrid one he has of magic and Alpha wolf combined is invulnerable.   It’s simply too powerful with each of their strengths and none of their weaknesses. 

 

Powerful enough to maybe let him influence Deaton and the McCall Pack’s memories of tonight, he ponders, so that they can easily return if they want to.  What Peter said about Talia stealing his memories resonates powerfully within him, the look in his eyes…Stiles sighs heavily.  There’s no way he could steal someone’s memories because the thought of someone taking the ones he has of his Mom makes him want to puke, let alone recalling the way her disease had robbed her of so many of her own. 

 

If he tweaked them slightly though, made them a bit hazy so they didn’t remember the finer details…more importantly if they simply didn’t remember how powerful he was, that could work.  It was something to think about.

 

He’ll speak to his pack first thing tomorrow about it, about all of it, because tonight he just wants this.  The comfort of his pack around him.

 

“Okay. Let’s do it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The film Derek refers to is 'Navy Seals' with Charlie Sheen and Michael Biehn.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the here and now - Stiles is confronted by his past, reflects on the present and discovers that there are still some secrets to be uncovered that will have a powerful effect on his pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice I've changed the number of expected chapters, this one was just getting way to big to contain everything that needed to be said.
> 
> meditati - latin for imagine.

** NOW **

Shaking off the flood of memories that Scott’s appearance has caused to resurface, Stiles clicks his tongue in annoyance.  More at himself than anything, for allowing what his ex-brother says about him tainting the almighty “Wolf Mage” to get under his skin.  The irony isn’t lost on him.

 

“Yeah, well I’m sure if he’s as powerful as you say he’ll get over it.”  Stiles looks beyond Scott’s glower of disapproval to the huge windows with views over the bay.   Usually it’s soothing, but right now…right now…no, fuck that. 

 

“In fact I can guarantee it.”  He snaps.  Why is he being so damn sensitive to a man he’s not thought of in years?  One who has proven himself to be not worth one bit of the loyalty that Stiles lavished on him so blindly when they were younger.

 

Common sense quickly reasserts itself or it could be more to do with the fact he can still hear Peter’s voice whispering smugly in his ear that same night ten years ago.  It was after the rest of the pack had fallen asleep one by one as they planned their departure from Beacon Hills, secure in their closeness and the knowledge that they’d made the right decision to leave. 

 

Stiles had been spooning Derek and Peter had been big spooning both of them, tucked in tight like a fucking dream, his lips brushing over the rim of Stiles’ ear making him shiver - ‘ _I almost feel sorry for McCall, he let you go not appreciating the treasure you are, but then I remember you’re mine…you and Derek are mine and I’ll never give you up.’_

 

Ignoring the huffy Alpha prancing in front of him like an attention-seeking Chihuahua, Stiles stares determinedly across the bay to regain his composure.  The morning fog has long since burned away during the course of the sunny day and the certainty that it will return towards evening **_is_** soothing.  Just as the certainty that he has the love and support of his mates and his pack is. 

 

In his line of sight are the beautifully lush cream couches that Lydia had chosen for the waiting area by the windows.  The mix of sea green and coral cushions and pillows scattered on them are still a sore point because he swears that when she made him go shopping with her, they saw forty in 20 different stores that were exactly the same before Lydia deemed these ones as perfect.  Although, he has to admit that they do pick up the accents of those same colours in one of Derek’s first attempts at abstract painting hanging on the wall behind.  A perfect match. 

 

It suddenly occurs to him that the seating area is empty.  There’s no one accompanying Scott which is unusual, very unusual, particularly when packs are talking alliances - even uninvited ones.  There’s a certain etiquette and diplomacy to these types of meetings.  The Alpha usually has either the right or left hand in attendance, sometimes even both depending on the nature of the pre-existing relationship if any, and if particularly tense negotiations are expected maybe some Betas as well.  Stiles has signed a few treaties with blood still dripping from his fangs and sparks singeing the paper from his fingertips.

 

“Where’s your Emissary or your right hand?”  Stiles knows that there’s no way in hell Scott would ever have a left hand, would find it morally repugnant to do so, whereas Stiles finds it even more reprehensible to leave yourself and your pack so open and vulnerable without one.  Sensing weakness, his wolf stretches and Stiles lifts and flexes his shoulders in sync.  A predator awakening.

 

He honours and adores his mates for what they bring to the pack and himself personally as his left and right hands.  Derek is a steady presence, helping and advising him with all the practical matters regarding the pack from the general day to day finances to liaising with each pack member regarding their individual needs and requirements.  He’s even created a schedule so they can keep track of each other.  Peter constantly has his ear to the ground, listening for any whispers that they may be in danger.  Sometimes he can counteract a threat by whispering back and that will end it pretty damn quick, but sometimes it calls for direct action and Stiles backs him up where he can, getting his own claws bloody when needed.  To the point of standing him down when he feels that even Peter’s machiavellian soul is getting a bit stretched thin and dealing with any ‘issues’ himself, Cora assisting him because she’s a vicious little thing at heart.

 

“Isaac-“  Scott’s lips twist awkwardly for the briefest moment and Stiles gets a whiff of something sour.  “Umm… that is Liam’s got an interview for a residency position which he can’t miss and Deaton started to feel a little bit ill when we first got here so he’s outside getting some fresh air.” 

 

Worry creases Scott’s forehead.  “Maybe I should go and check on him, it’s not like I’ve got an appointment to worry about.  The Mage isn’t even here at the moment.”

 

Stiles doesn’t know what to think about Scott’s little stumble over names, because who the heck is Liam and why isn’t the McCall pack priority for him?   As for Isaac, it’s weird that he isn’t here with his Alpha on a supposedly important meeting like this, he can’t imagine his own left and right hands not being in attendance if it was him. 

 

Deaton’s presence is what concerns him more.  It explains why he felt the prickle against his skin of another magic user nearby.  It’s not unexpected that Deaton should fall ill trying to cross the first line of defence from his wards, because he’d doubted that he’d changed that much since they’d last met, but he’d hoped for better from the man.  He’s never doubted that Deaton’s particularly devoted to Scott, that Scott is still so obviously deeply influenced by the druid though makes Stiles wonder if maybe he’s under a thrall and he gently probes at the other man’s aura to see if there’s any magical manipulation. 

 

He doesn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he doesn’t find anything more than the slight hazing ** _he’d_** made to Scott’s memories of that night before he left Beacon Hills, because it means that without any interference or magical coercion Scott trusts and listens to Deaton way more than he ever did with himself.  Without that hazing would Scott have put all the clues together about the Wolf Mage’s identity?  He finds it hard to believe that it’s possible, but that could be his own bias talking and considering that Scott’s somehow here having found his location without knowing exactly who he’s looking for…well it makes Stiles wonder.  He needs to know what Scott knows and how, so he can decide what the heck he’s going to do.

 

“This Wolf Mage that you’re hoping to meet, how did you find out about him?  That he’s here?”  Stiles questions lightly, because the precautions that he takes to stay out of the supernatural limelight and remain anonymous are quite stringent at his pack’s urging.   

 

It’s sweet, but unnecessary considering he’s linked to the network of nemetons around the world after purging the Beacon Hills one of an evil presence on the day he so drastically changed. 

 

As his power and knowledge has grown he’s put together the puzzle pieces of past events and come to understand a lot of what had happened.  The biggest surprise had been the realisation that the Beacon Hills nemeton is the youngest of them all, the baby.  Whoever had cut it down had hindered its ability to draw on the network to a trickle and all the other older ones around the world hadn’t been able to directly help it heal from being poisoned by the vile spirit it had been forced to contain. 

 

Somehow, Stiles had inadvertently completed the third and final sacrifice needed to regain the nemeton’s strength and rid itself of that evil presence.  Derek had ended Paige’s suffering in the root cellar, Peter had finished off what was left of the darach there when it was still a stump, which Stiles had only discovered well after the fact, and within the next 48 hours Stiles had killed a great evil in Deucalion.  He still doesn’t know if it means anything that it was with his mates that they completed it, but he doesn’t underestimate fate or the power of 3 – either on their own is powerful, together…all bets are off.  The combined gratitude of the nemetons means that they all rally to his call on an almost biblical level of smackdown. 

 

Still, he follows the pack’s security protocols because he doesn’t want them to worry and it helps set their minds at ease particularly after a couple of close calls in the pack’s early days, when he was still learning what he could do.  That they were so hypervigilant about each other’s safety was understandable considering the losses that they had all suffered.  He didn’t think it was something that would ever go away.  Which means he can still expect Peter and Derek to spank his ass for not getting a visual on Scott before he came up from the secure batcave and not in the good way either.

 

With all the research they’ve done he’s learned so much regarding his abilities.  The most fascinating discovery being that he can sense other magic users around the world and was rather disappointed when the rest of his pack refused to start calling him Professor X even when he went into a detailed explanation about Cerebro and tracking mutants.  He can even sense the flicker of magic coming to life when new users are born, which gives him the warm fuzzies when it happens.  The majority are what he would call low-level, although in realistic terms what they could do would freak out the average non-magical person. 

 

There’s only a couple that would be near enough his equal, one high in the mountains of Tibet who is so chill and mellow that Stiles feels frenzied and manic by comparison, even though his Dad assures him this is the calmest he’s ever been and another in Great Britain or Wales to be exact, that feels really, really old with a very clear ‘Do not disturb’ aura about him and he wonders what or who he would rise for.  If Deaton had freaked out before as to what he could potentially do…well the reality would blow his little mind. 

 

“Deaton got a tip from some high up in the Druid circle that the Wolf Mage had moved his pack to the West Coast.  It’s only recently we figured out that wherever the Wolf Mage goes the telluric currents open wide and flow faster…stuff happens.”  Scott scratches his chin.

 

“Stuff?”  Stiles asks bewilderedly.

 

“Yeah.  Birds migrating out of season, snows melting early, larger than usual groups of animals appearing in one location, tides changing, flowers blooming in parks overnight, that kind of thing.  Once we knew what to look for we could narrow it down and lucky for us he’s here, so close to Beacon Hills.”

 

“That could just be global warming and climate change at work.”

 

That Scott of all people is giving him a look that says ‘really, that’s what you’re going with’ is a bitter ironic pill, but the alternative…

 

Stiles is shocked to find himself believing him.  Thinking back on all the times he’s travelled around the country and overseas and found the currents moving sluggishly when he first arrived somewhere new, it never occurred to him that the longer he’s there the more fast flowing and energised they become and what impact that could have on the surrounding area.  How did he not know that?  To think that he’s unknowingly been leaving traces like that which could have and _has_ lead straight back to them is disturbing. 

 

God…only today at the pack breakfast they’d been watching an early morning news report on the greater than usual influx of whales into the area for the third year in a row and he remembers thinking that’s so cool as he happily sipped his coffee - it’s the good shit from Sumatra, because Lydia and Peter refuse to drink anything else.  Is that influx because of him? Pursing his lips, Stiles puffs out a long breath of air.  It’s part of what he loves about living and working so close to the bay, watching the whales as they migrate, gliding across the surface and diving deep before breaching spectacularly.

 

“This building is like the bank at home.”  Scott’s emphasis on ‘bank’ breaks Stiles’ train of thought.  As if Stiles had possibly forgotten the place that they’d found Boyd and Cora and worst of all Erica’s body.  “It’s been built right over one of the currents.”

 

Yes it had.  Stiles had chosen the plot of land for exactly that reason – any wards or protections he placed on the building and its occupants would be magnified a hundredfold, which he and the pack agreed was worth any amount of money for the far greater advantage it provided.  For that reason and also that the current ran in a clear line direct to their private clifftop estate allowing for a portal that Stiles had installed, which meant a 2 second blink-and-you-miss-it commute rather than the fifty minute drive between home and the bayside business district.

 

“Now what are you doing here?”  Scott demands, drawing himself up with self-importance, eyes narrowing with curiosity and suspicion.

 

“I work here.”  Stiles replies after a moment, barely quelling the urge to claw the condescension right out of Scott’s hide.  Steadily breathing through his nose, he can feel himself calm.  It’s no lie so there’s no skip to his heartbeat and he can see the tension furrow between Scott’s eyebrows relax.  Aside from the formal rooms on the basement level that they prefer to use when meeting with outsiders, there’s four businesses within the building.  It’s clear that Scott doesn’t realise that they are all owned and run by his pack through a complicated series of trusts to hide their ownership.  Stiles doesn’t totally understand it, but has faith that Derek and Cora know their stuff. 

 

Peter’s company, Meditati Architecture, shares a floor with Spirit Design, Lydia’s interior design firm, as they often work on projects together.  Their vision and taste surprisingly frequently aligns and their reputation for innovation and use of space has won them contracts from around the country and interest from overseas clients.  Lydia still has a whiteboard in her office that has her progress for one of the millennium math problems on it and in a special glass case her Fields medal is proudly displayed.

 

Derek’s art studio is on the penthouse floor with a large outdoor area so he can work with the natural light and he employs a curator to run his Gallery, which is to one side of the reception and waiting area of their building and has its own separate street entrance.  It shows and sells his own work and a few other local artists and the Two Socks Gallery has built a reputation in the art world for displaying innovative and imaginative pieces and for representing the most exciting and creative artists currently working. 

 

Stiles loves the gallery opening nights for showing Derek’s new works in particular.  To hide his delicious shyness in front of the necessary critics and society darlings that attend, often fawning if not over his talent then his good looks, his beautiful mate gets very scowly with an active eyebrow level of defcon 1.  He often gets so wound up that Stiles and Peter take it in turns dragging him off to somewhere private so he can pound the tension out on their asses and 'Opening night' takes on a whole new meaning.

 

Cora has some private offices where, as she likes to call it, she ‘dabbles’ in the stock market on behalf of the pack generally and for their employees 401k plan.  Her interest fuelled when she flicked through some of Derek’s old business texts from his NYU days, deciding on Harvard to do her MBA.  Stiles thinks she’s so good at tracking down profitable investments because she has the same vicious regard for it as she does when hunting for prey as a wolf.  So far her ‘dabbles’ have improved the pack’s net worth to the equivalent of a small country and their employees will be able to retire more than comfortably. 

 

Stiles points towards his own offices and private forensic lab, Red String Consultants.  It’s here on the ground floor which annoys the fuck out of his mates from a purely defensive point of view.  It’s taken them a long time to get there, the fear of losing someone else is a constant, but they both concede that Stiles has proven that he’s as lethal as any wolf and more.  While his magic is off the charts anyway, when he can feel the thrum of the current directly beneath his feet it becomes something else entirely – it feels like he could shatter the world in two. 

 

The good reputation he’s started to build with his work as a private consultant for local and state law enforcement is being recognised by the number of requests to review case files and evidence that he’s starting to receive from jurisdictions across the country.  It’s deeply satisfying considering his age and he knows he owes his Dad for starting the ball rolling and putting the word out regarding his breakthroughs on a couple of cold cases.  While he has every technological and scientific advancement in his field that’s currently available, he still uses the boards and strings to follow the clues and help him figure things out.

 

Scott’s brow furrows deeply for an instant before relaxing and there’s something in his eyes that tells Stiles he recognises the meaning behind the name of his business. 

 

“Good for you man, I think I remember Mom saying something about you starting up your own business, but I wasn’t really paying attention.”  The width and ease of Scott’s smile is almost wounding, reminding Stiles of how close they used to be, but he shrugs it off because Scott’s casual dismissal is just as familiar. 

 

That smile slips and Scott’s face contorts awkwardly to a more stoic expression which is vaguely amusing.  It’s as though he’s suddenly remembered that he actually disapproves of him and needs to reinforce that.  The silence stretches between them for a moment and it’s so awkward that Stiles would be really grateful for something to break it.  Anything really. 

 

The elevator behind him pings as it arrives and its doors start to open.  Sighing with relief, he’s just about to turn his head to see who it is when Scott shifts.  Fur, fangs and claws in full view as he launches himself forward to attack and Stiles doesn’t think, he simply reacts.

 

Intercepting Scott is shockingly way too easy.  Scott should at least be making it very difficult for him, but instead he almost feels like a schoolyard bully tormenting the smaller, weaker child as he holds the other Alpha in place by simply resting his palm on the other wolf’s forehead, watching him frantically claw and lunge wildly into the space Stiles’ long reach provides.  His flailing technique is simply appalling or rather lack of one and Stiles appreciates all the more the training he’s done with his pack to enhance his fighting skills because if he’d looked like this while facing the Del Rey pack, sure he probably still would’ve won, but only because the Del Rey’s Alpha would’ve been laughing too much to actually fight.  

 

He can’t even begin to imagine how ridiculous this looks, but it needs to end. Now.  Stiles effortlessly gets Scott to step back by shoving his head away and while he tries to regain his balance, Stiles flicks him right between the eyes with his forefinger and thumb and a sliver of intent.  Scott freezes, his eyes rolling wildly as he realises that he can’t speak, can’t move. 

 

With a thought Stiles initiates the building’s evacuation enchantment because this could be messy and not something he’d want anyone not pack or pack adjacent to witness.  All of the staff within the building, apart from Marcie, are automatically evacuated off the premises with a spell that gives them a clear memory of a major power outage to the building and being given the rest of the day off.  This is only the second time they’ve had to use it, the first time was when the negotiations for a truce between a troop of spriggans and a clan of pixies from the Muir Woods region descended into a pissing contest.  Literally, and those spriggans had big bladders.

 

Deaton stumbles past him, sweating and ashen-faced.  Peter brushes against Stiles’ shoulder in greeting as he pushes the druid to stand next to Scott. 

 

“Well darling, isn’t this a surprise, I see we’ve got company which explains why I found this lurking near the entrance to the parking garage.”  Peter’s eyes are glowing blue and if the situation wasn’t what it was, Stiles would find the contrast extremely alluring, his ruthless wolf in his civilised trappings of a dark blue bordering on black Savile Row business suit with a silver grey silk tie and a crisp white shirt. 

 

Peter’s dressed to kill, but Stiles really hopes he doesn’t have to because aside from the fact that blood is simply a bitch to get out of silk, he’d so like to see him in this outfit again in a more congenial setting, preferably in Peter’s office while he’s working and Stiles can suck on his thick cock from under his desk.  Stiles licks his lips, mouth-watering, and wriggles his hips slightly to try and loosen his significantly tighter pants and it earns him a knowing smirk from his wolf.

 

“Yeah I know, I could feel him out there.”  Deaton’s eyes widen slightly at his comment before he quickly regains his normally bland expression. 

 

“The meeting went well?”  Stiles asks, pack business has priority over visitors he’d rather avoid. 

 

“Of course darling.  Takeda signed on the dotted line after a perfectly pitched presentation from yours truly.”  Peter bows slightly from the waist, hand over his heart.  “It could mean a trip to Japan at some point, but I won’t go until after…”

 

Stiles nods in understanding, letting his mate feel his pride and love through their bond.  “Congratulations, we’ll definitely celebrate later.” 

 

Peter’s eyes soften as Stiles tugs on his sleeve and pulls him in for a hug, nuzzling their cheeks together and uncaring of the weird ‘ack’ noise that Scott makes.

 

Sighing because he’s really done with all of this, he releases Scott from his frozen stance, he quickly drapes one of Deaton’s arms over his shoulder to support the older man who is swaying unsteadily.

 

“What have you done to him?”  Scott snarls at Peter, eyes glowing red.

 

“Nothing.  If he’d come here in good faith and with no ill-intentions he’d be fine.  He wouldn’t be suffering from ward-sickness.”  Stiles bites out, because as per usual Scott has cast Peter in the role of the villain.

 

“I didn’t mean-“  Scott’s mouth hangs open rather unattractively for a moment before he quickly snaps it shut.  “Wards?  Deaton says only a strong magic user can build wards.”

 

“Yes Scott, for once he’s told you the truth.  My wards.  The ones I have in place to ferret out those that mean to harm my pack.”

 

“You need to stop deluding yourself Stiles, you’re a spark and that’s it.  As for a pack-”  Scott flicks his eyes towards Peter and snorts.  “You don’t have a pack.”  Scott refutes point blank.  “Just a vicious psychopathic dog that should’ve been put down for good a long time ago.”

 

Stiles roars in absolute outrage, finding himself close to the edge of losing control, which he’d only done once before with such extreme consequences that one US city would never be the same again.  The physical changes of his wolf burst out of him in a furious rush, fang and claw emerging so rapidly that copper lingers on his tongue and red smears stain the tips of his nails.  It’s only the pure amusement he feels coming through his bond with Peter that stops him from exploding with fury and he’s able to rein in his wolf, feeling the ache in his gums as his fangs forcibly retract.

 

Peter lifts one eyebrow in disdain at Scott and smirks as he says “Woof.”

 

Scott growls savagely in response to the taunt moving menacingly towards Peter, before scrabbling to haul up Deaton as he starts to tip over.  His clear disbelief at what he’s seeing tugs at the corners of Stiles’ mouth into a sharp smile. 

 

“I can see you don’t know what the hell I’m talking about, well let me help you with that.”

 

With a less than gentle yank, Stiles unravels the threads on the delicate veil of concealment he’d used to hide the memory of his power from the True Alpha and his druid Emissary all those years ago.  They remembered the argument and Scott’s rejection of Stiles, but not much beyond that, so they truly believed that Stiles didn’t possess anything more than the smallest most insignificant of sparks and that killing Deucalion was more by luck than any magic. 

 

“Stiles…”  Scott shakes his head violently, face pale, the red fading from his eyes.  “What…how?”

 

Deaton simply looks like he’s going to puke and Stiles takes a surreptitious step back, just in case. 

 

The second elevator pings on arrival to the foyer and as it does Derek bursts through the stairwell emergency exit door on the far side of the reception floor roaring angrily as he rushes out without hesitation, the door swinging wildly in his wake.  Stiles’ second is in full wolfman shift which now results in Derek hulking out to a massive 6’8 with matching physique, towering over both Stiles and even Peter when he similarly shifts. 

 

After going through some of the old family histories, Peter’s theorised that Derek’s spontaneously evolved into what was recognised by many packs as the ultimate defender.  Not of territories or lands, however, but simply of the pack’s den and the pack members themselves.  Strong and powerful without the drives and instincts of an Alpha they are a true rarity.  These ‘Beta berserkers’ would lose themselves to the overwhelming need to protect the core of the pack.

 

The seams on Derek’s jeans and white tank are stretched to breaking point with his increased size and musculature, thick black hair covers his arms, shoulders and chest.  His nose, mouth and jawline have elongated to a more muzzle-like appearance and his fangs are noticeably longer and sharper than his regular Beta shift.  Right at this moment, with his blue glowing eyes, he looks so very fierce and other that he’s not surprised to hear Scott audibly gulp.  In Stiles’ eyes, however, his mate is simply adorable with the white paint that covers his claws and is smeared over his cheek. 

 

Stiles is lifted off his feet as Derek nuzzles and scents his throat for any injury or harm done and Stiles takes the opportunity to kiss the tip of Derek’s muzzle where there’s another splodge of dried paint, Derek whines in relief before he starts the same process with Peter.  Once he’s satisfied and has put Peter back on his feet, chest heaving, his eyes dart back and forth between Scott and Deaton as though struggling to decide which one to tear apart first. 

 

Scott’s face is a picture at the closeness and obvious affection they have for each other – curiosity, disbelief and disgust war to take precedence.  Scott’s eyes narrow at the sight of the pair of bite scars on either side of Derek’s neck and he instantly turns his attention towards Stiles’ own throat.  Fingers twitching instinctively, he almost lifts a protective hand to his neck to touch his own, but manages to quell the action remembering that his button down shirt collar hides them just as Peter’s shirt and tie does for him.  

 

At least Scott’s not ignorant of what it means for a wolf to carry a permanent bite mark on their body.  Stiles is barely able to contain the quiver the memory of his mates marking him as theirs brings, one on either side crowding him in close, the pain so excruciating that it transcended into a pleasure so exquisite that he’d sobbed from sheer joy.  That quiver is swiftly followed by another when he recalls sinking his own fangs into each of his mate’s necks in return.  The pure possessiveness that the action had brought out in him had been shocking only matched and maybe surpassed by the desire to protect his mates.

 

“Lydia.”  Peter moves to her side as she steps out of the elevator with Cora supporting her, one arm wrapped around her waist.  “You shouldn’t be down here-“  He raises one hand when her eyes narrow dangerously and she draws breath to speak.  “-not until we made sure it’s safe for our Emissary, nothing else.”

 

The furious wrinkle on her brow smooths out, appeased.  Her hands stroke over her well-rounded belly and when she sees Peter’s soft expression as he watches, she drags his hand down to cup and shape where their baby rests and Stiles goes gooey at the deeply content look in his wolf’s eyes.  Cora kisses Lydia’s cheek, breathing her scent in and sighs happily.

 

Straightening, Lydia’s expression hardens as she looks to where Scott and Deaton stand, Cora and Peter flank her protectively.  Derek between them and the rest of the pack, Marcie behind Scott and Deaton with an automatic shotgun loaded with wolfsbane trained unwaveringly on his former best friend.  Stiles mentally makes a note to speak to his pack mates about giving Marcie a raise because she is all of awesome, but he’d expect nothing less from an ex-Deputy from his Dad’s department.

 

“What are you doing here uninvited?”  Lydia asks, the same distinct chill in her tone that she terrorises clients with that dare to question her designs or God forbid ask for changes or modifications.

 

“Miss Martin-“  Deaton wheezes out.

 

“Not you, him.”  Lydia interrupts sharply.  “And it’s Ms Martin-Hale thank you very much.”  Lydia wiggles her fingers in the air so they can all see the flashing glint of platinum and diamonds on her ring finger.  Cora grins proudly beside her.

 

“We…I came to see the wolf mage.”  Scott’s voice is gritty with confusion as he looks at the group gathered around him, faces he’s not seen in a long time.  “An alliance…we thought-“  He shakes his head again.  “I don’t know what I thought.”

 

Scott stares at the floor for a long moment before lifting his gaze to meet Stiles’ eyes. 

 

“You’re the wolf mage.”  It’s not a question, it’s a statement and Stiles mentally marks a point in Scott’s tally column of ‘proof that I can see past my own navel’.

 

“Yes.”  Stiles lets the shift take him and there’s a dark thrill that shoots down his spine when he hears the sharp intake of breath from Scott and smells the sickly-sweet scent of fear that blooms alongside the acrid tang of jealousy from Deaton, as the older man witnesses the changes that signify he is the Wolf Mage.  The claws and fangs, the sparks from his fingertips and the galaxy-filled eyes. 

 

“You’ve heard what I can do then?”  The vibrating timbre of his voice is so deep and commanding, it even gives him the shivers.

 

Deaton purses his lips and breathes out a harsh bitter "Yes".

 

“It’s all true.”  Stiles confirms with a considering tilt to his head.  “I can strip you of your magic-“  Deaton shudders and Stiles turns his attention to Scott.  “-and I can make you human again.”

 

“You can?”  Scott sucks on his lower lip, drawing it between his teeth.  There’s a brief flicker of longing in his eyes before it dies away.  “I can’t.  I’m the only thing that’s standing between Beacon Hills and whatever’s lurking out there.  You know there’s been no breach of our borders for nearly 7 or 8 years now and it’s all because of my reputation as a True Alpha.”

 

Peter snickers and Stiles has to stop and stare because he’s never heard the man make a sound like that before in his life, it’s almost a giggle.  His mate gradually gets louder, the giggle turning to a laugh and the laugh turning into belly-busting guffaws.  Tears start to roll down his beautiful cheekbones into his neatly trimmed goatee and Stiles has to admit he can’t stop his own lips from twitching madly because damn if Scott wasn’t absolutely, deadly serious.

 

“Dumbass.”  Cora rolls her eyes at Scott.  Even Lydia has an enigmatic smile worthy of the Mona Lisa tweaking her lips.

 

“What?  What are you laughing at?”  Scott growls belligerently.

 

Derek’s wolfman shift falls away, disconcertingly dropping 8 inches in height and about 60 pounds almost instantly, and he just stares at Scott with almost sympathy in his eyes.  Stiles wants to coo, always delighted to see the softer side of his wolf that he’d hidden behind sarcasm and heavy eyebrow dialogue back in Beacon Hills.  What seems like a long time ago now, Peter once told him that Derek was a lot like Scott as a teenager which he’d disregarded almost instantly, now that he knows him so intimately in his heart and soul he believes it. 

 

Derek’s a good man that fate and circumstances had nearly destroyed, surviving makes him better than Scott – more tolerant and understanding that sometimes there’s only one choice when something threatens everything you hold dear and you have to get your hands dirty.  It’s Derek’s hope and compassion that balances his and Peter’s ruthlessness and it’s his love and comforting arms that stops them both from slipping into the darkness when they’ve had to act.

 

“Scott.  There have been no breaches of **_our_** borders.  It’s Stiles’ and our pack’s reputation that have kept Beacon Hills safe.”  Derek explains.

 

“That’s not true.  I stayed and you left…you all went away.”  There’s a bitter whine to Scott’s voice that surprises the heck out of Stiles because it doesn’t even sound like it’s specifically directed at them.  “I was the one who stayed, ready to defend Beacon Hills.”

 

“Do you remember what you first said to me, that the Wolf Mage was a ‘shining light of justice’?”  Stiles air quotes with his long fingers letting them spark visibly through the air.  “That wasn’t just figuratively.”  Stiles draws additional energy from the currents and groans in pleasure as it rushes through his body, lighting him up till every part of him is glowing.  Arousal pulses through the mate bonds and he smirks at the heat that burns in his mates’ eyes at the erotic sounds they recognise and more often than not are the direct cause of.  Only the ones they pull out of him are deeper, longer, fiercer. 

 

“Yes, some of that reputation was from negotiating and forming alliances not only for ourselves, we helped a number of other packs and covens around the country create treaties with their local Hunter clans.  Not all of them successful and we dealt with good and bad on both sides, sometimes we even allied with the Hunters, ‘cause believe me there’s a few Alphas out there that are first-class dicks.  There’s not many groups that would take us on now, mainly because I’ve shown how far I’m prepared to go to protect my pack and let me tell you that there is nothing and no one on this Earth that could stop me if something were to threaten any of them.  I would raze cities and rain fire down upon those who even dared.  So when I say that Beacon Hills is off-limits…it’s off-limits.” 

 

The snapping crackle of Stiles’ electrical discharge is loud and violent as it lunges out in jagged wild bursts into the polished concrete floor lifting him off his feet to hover above them, arms flung wide open and body arching.  It’s exhilarating, the rush of power through every atom of his body. 

 

The white puffy clouds outside the big windows suddenly turn black, a rolling front of darkness that spreads out, filling the skies across the horizon and blocking the light of the sun.  Lightning whipcracks loud and fast, striking the ground outside over and over.  The deep resonance of thunder booms directly overhead shaking the entire building and the overpowering scent of ozone is thick and ripe in the air.

 

Deaton cringes back and Stiles gives kudos where it’s due because Scott stands his ground, which he finds kinda admirable or really, really dumb.  He hasn’t decided yet.  The reputation he has within the supernatural world as a fixer and negotiator is tinged with awe and fear, more than justifiable he acknowledges, but it can be a pain in the ass because he considers himself to be a regular guy, likeable even, but if it keeps his pack safe then that’s all that matters in the end.  Maybe that’s how Scott still sees him, as a regular guy and feels safe with him.

 

Okay dumb.

 

Stiles can see Scott’s throat work as he struggles to find words.  Rubbing two fingers against his brow, expression pained, Scott finally manages to rasp out.  “So…Boston?”

 

Absolutely, positively dumb if he knows about Boston.

 

Descending slowly, one foot in front of the other as he steps from air to the ground to stand in front of the other man, he debates whether Scott really wants to hear the truth or not.  Inwardly shrugging, he gives it to him anyway. 

 

“It’s true.”  The storm outside burns itself out with a last burst of lightning, before the black clouds part and the sun shines, lighting up the lobby once more.

 

Scott simply stares at him and Stiles wonders if he’s surprised or not.  If he is then he doesn’t know him at all and if he’s not then he’s probably confirmed every terrible thing that Scott’s believed him capable of.  It’s not even like he was looking for trouble, which may have been the problem, he’d let his guard down after 3 years in Boston without a major incident until the rogue necromancer came looking for him. 

 

Thinking a slice of Stiles’ magical pie would be real easy to take on campus, with a number of zombies that did not deserve to have their rest disturbed by a hack one-trick pony looking for a power boost, he’d dealt with it with extreme prejudice.  He’s taken to raising the bastard himself whenever he feels in the mood just so the fucker knows exactly how painful and disorienting it is being sucked back to the living world every single time.

 

Unfortunately, dealing with him had drawn the attention of the local Hunter family in the area who hadn’t believed the social media postings of a flash mob zombie walk with very realistic participants and awesome special effects on the Harvard campus.  The Maverick family had tracked them down, the matriarch deciding to kidnap Cora and Lydia to bring him to heel.  It was the last dumb decision she ever made.

 

“I thought it was an exaggeration, but you did, didn’t you?  You killed all those hunters, took out a city block.” 

 

“That’s the whole razing cities part of my ‘justice’.”  Scott’s face gets this pinched look and Stiles just knows that he’s thinking of all the innocents that would’ve been hurt.  It’s a bitter pill to swallow that he thinks he’s truly capable of that, even as wildly furious as Stiles had been at the blood that trickled from Lydia’s split lip, her black eye and the bullet wound in Cora’s side that looked foul and corrupt from wolfsbane, he’d not lost complete control, just barely able to hang on.  Although, if it had been Peter and Derek, he doesn’t think he would’ve been able to limit himself to a single city block.

 

What didn’t filter out with all those reports was that it was late evening in a neighbourhood with more rundown warehouses than people down near the Naval Yard and anyone innocent that was caught up in the unstoppable tsunami of his magic were later found alive.  All of them cradled protectively in the green leafy branches of trees that the ordinary world couldn’t explain how or why they came to be there, in the middle of bedrooms or cars or even the sidewalk.  That they’d been saved from what at first was thought to be a terrorist attack, until the authorities decided it was a gas explosion that had torn the area apart, was deemed a miracle.

 

The network of nemetons had answered his call that night to save while he unleashed his wrath.

 

“I think I…we should leave now.”  Scott murmurs and there’s something so weary and broken in his expression that it gives Stiles pause…almost.  Never let it be said that he doesn’t know when to press on the bruise or sore point, he can be petty enough for that, he doesn’t deny it.

 

“What?  You’re leaving, but I thought it was meant to be Scott, a perfect fit between the True Alpha and the Wolf Mage.”  The sharp, biting tone draws the eyes of his pack and he can feel the concern they have for him through the bonds and maybe he’s a bit more pissed off than he wants to admit at Scott’s attitude of extreme disappointment in him.  Peter’s bond is tinged with savage amusement and Stiles turns to him and winks.

 

“Alliances are off the table then?”

 

Scott looks away for a moment, when he turns back there’s grim lines marking either side of his mouth. 

 

“Yes.”  He says with a bite, instantly pissing off Stiles with the almost accusatory tone that somehow it’s his fault for not being the person Scott wants him to be.

 

“All those things you said about the Wolf Mage at the start Scott, that’s me, but I’m Boston and Deucalion too.  I’m everything you want and everything you fear and despise too because I would willingly get my hands dirty for the most important people in my life.”

 

Stiles moves in close, eyes fixed on Scott who looks away, he turns to Deaton who flinches.  With a fingertip not quite touching, he traces a line down the side of the other man’s cheek and pulls on the druid’s magic, barely holding in a grimace of disgust.  It’s sour and acidic, not what he would normally associate with a practitioner that draws his power from nature.  Deaton’s eyes bulge as he feels his magic being slowly drained without a nullification ritual being performed, purely by Stiles' will.

 

"Please."  Deaton begs faintly.

 

“Don’t come back.”  Stiles commands.  “We both know that you want things that are way beyond your pay grade.  Keep pushing and I’ll show you exactly what that means.”

 

Deaton visibly swallows and nods his head vigorously.  Stiles holds his hand open and within it there’s a floating ball of magic, Deaton’s magic that he’s just pulled out of the man, still connected to him by one thin thread so it doesn't destroy his mind.  It’s a sickly murky looking yellow, with threads of bilious green veined throughout and Stiles wraps a layer of confinement around it from his own magic.  Stiles can barely stand to have something so corrupt so close and pushes it back into Deaton’s chest, relieved when it’s gone. 

 

"What have you done?"  Deaton croaks out, rubbing at his chest fiercely.

 

“Not much.  You've got your power back, you just can't access it.”  Stiles decides he’s going to give the Circle of Druids a call because Deaton is seriously messed up and they need to sort his shit out, the binding he's placed on his power will stop him from being able to use it until Stiles releases it. 

 

"You can't-"  Deaton grimaces, sweat starting to bead on his brow, hands clenched into fists as he tries to draw on his magic again and again and finds he can't.  "You fucking bastard...you can't do this to me.  There's no way you should have this type of power, it's obscene."

 

"Uh huh, yep life can be a real bitch sometimes."  Stiles nods, because in some respects Deaton's not wrong.  How the hell did he end up here with such unbelievable power at his fingertips?  It's a question he's asked himself frequently along with how does he stop himself from becoming so corrupt that he wouldn't be able to look himself in the eye when he can do anything, have anything he wants and the answer is always the people that surround him now - his mates, his pack and the love he has for all of them.

 

He’s surprised that Scott’s not intervened while he's been threatening the older man and he turns to confront him only to discover his former friend’s attention is focused on Lydia with unnerving intensity. 

 

“You’re having a baby?”  Scott breathes out and there’s a soft wonder in his tone that Stiles can appreciate, it’s exactly how he feels whenever he looks at Lydia’s round belly that holds the next generation of their pack.  Almost 18 months ago, Peter had started to talk about children and surrogates, although none of them really knew how to feel about someone else becoming so closely tied to their pack by carrying a baby, their baby. 

 

The bonds they have are so tight it hadn’t seemed necessary to increase their pack beyond what it is, so no one was more surprised than Peter when Lydia offered to carry his child and Stiles knew that they’d become extremely close over the years, but the tears that had welled up in his wolf’s eyes then was a sure sign of how deeply touched Peter was.  They’re all becoming parents, even his Dad has declared himself to be Grandpa and Jordan has decided on Poppy.

 

“Yes Scott, this isn’t a beach ball stuffed up here you know.”  Lydia’s lips quirk in amusement.

 

“Ally’s pregnant too.”  Scott reveals wistfully and Stiles' lips part in an 'O' of surprise.  He hadn't known that and he looks across at Lydia who's steadfastly not meeting his eyes.

 

“Not anymore.”  Lydia says.

 

“What?  Is she okay…did she lose the baby?”  Instantly, grief gouges lines into his suddenly grey face.  “How do you know?”

 

“No, no.  Ally and I’ve always kept in touch.  She’s okay.  They all are.”  Lydia quickly reassures, before pausing thoughtfully. “She has eyes just like her father.”

 

“A girl.  She had a girl.”  Scott’s face brightens with such open transparent joy and it transforms him into the boy that he once was, the one before werewolves, kanimas and Alpha packs.  “I bet she’s beautiful, blue eyes and curls like Isaac…Ally’s perfect skin.”

 

Lydia shakes her head as she pulls out her phone and taps on the screen for a moment before holding it out towards him. 

 

“Brown eyes, Scott.  Big brown eyes like her father and her grandmother.”

 

With a trembling hand Scott takes the phone and stares at the image as though he’s burning it into his memory.  Scott’s eyes well up and he shakes his head in denial. 

 

“No, no.  She can’t be mine.  Deaton said-“  The tears dry up and his face goes tight and rigid, jaw clamping down as he whirls on his Emissary.  “You said that the baby wasn’t mine…that I would go crazy, that as an Alpha all my animal instincts would come out and I couldn’t have Ally carry anyone else’s child.” 

 

Crazed, Scott shifts.   Teeth gnashing wildly and claws slashing through the air as he holds the phone up in front of the other man’s face.  Deaton averts his eyes which only enrages Scott even more.  “You told me that I would hurt them all…that’s why I sent them away.  Fuck…I practically drove them away.  I trusted you.”

 

Stiles and his pack growl menacingly at Deaton, who casts them a worried look. 

 

“No sane wolf would ever hurt a cub, their own or not-”  Derek spits out, furiously.  “-and you would know that.”

 

Deaton pleads with Scott, his hand on his sleeve which the younger man shakes off.  “I had to Scott.  They were a distraction and we’ve got important work to do, you and I.  They’ll be fine and we can go on to become what we were always meant to be.”

 

“And what’s that?”  Stiles questions, sending a powerful nudge of truth reaping in his words.

 

“The perfect Alpha and Emissary.  I thought I had it with Talia, she was so strong, so powerful.  The first Alpha to completely shift in nearly sixty years.  I thought she was the one.  She responded so well to my influence.”  Deaton’s eyes glaze lost in memory before abruptly hardening.  "But she was a failure."

 

Stiles has to give a fierce pull on the bonds of his pack who are all just barely controlling themselves from attacking the Emissary and there are questions that need answers.  Peter gives him such a dark look that if it were anyone else but his mate, Stiles wouldn't have hesitated to take them out in an entirely bloody and non-date like way.  Derek's gaze is unblinking, fixed on Deaton, and Stiles can feel him trying to close himself off from the bonds, but as his mate and his Alpha, Stiles keeps them wide open and demands he hold back the rising 'Berserker'.   Lydia is simply furious in a purely calculating way that sends a shiver through Stiles. Cora's possibly the hardest to rein in, her instincts to protect her mate and the baby she carries are deeply outraged and offended at what Deaton's done - even if it is to 'Scott, the worst Alpha in the world' trademark pending as she likes to refer to him.

 

“Influence?”  Stiles questions the inflection that the druid gives it.  “You mean magically?”

 

“Yes, it took time.  A little bit here and there so she didn't notice.  We were going to do such great things together, bring together the different councils - hunter, were and druid - forge treaties and create a new order, but then she started to be...recalcitrant and it was all their fault."  Deaton's mouth twists into an ugly sneer as he glares fiercely at Peter and Derek.  "After all that work convincing her to take them, she was going to give back the memories to Peter about his mate, about Derek, she thought they were both suffering.”  

 

“It’s an abomination to the balance, one not to be tolerated.  Then she dared threaten to dismiss me as her Emissary and that could not be allowed.  Proof that I’d mistakenly put my faith in her as the right Alpha for me to serve.  Once I cut down the nemeton and weakened its bond with the Hale pack, Kate Argent was already moving against us, but with my guiding hand she maintained the balance.  She corrected that mistake, cleansed it with fire and mountain ash.”

 

Deaton ignores the shocked gasps from the pack, his focus solely on Scott, whose mouth hangs open in horror. 

 

“I knew I’d find you eventually, someone special, and you came to me because of the fire.  The balance working perfectly as it always does and I knew it had all been worth it.  Only you came with a spark, a potential Emissary, one that wasn’t worthy of the honour and it couldn’t be allowed.  Fortunately, you understood this and listened, you barely needed a push to reject him and his vicious disrespect not like Talia did with her heir and her enforcer constantly whispering in her ear.”

 

Deaton pulls himself up proudly.  “ ** _MY_** Alpha needs to be pure in thought and deed, an example of morals and a perfect instrument to maintain the balance and Talia wasn’t strong enough, but you are Scott.” 

 

The rapturous smile he turns onto Scott then is so disturbing it makes Stiles’ skin crawl and it’s not even being directed at him.  “The things I’ve had to do may seem harsh, but they were necessary.  It was all for you.  Don’t you know that I would do anything for you Scott?  Don’t you understand how important our mission is?  You are the True Alpha and I am your Emissary.”

 

Stiles can see it, can see the moment when Scott’s sense of self shatters into a million pieces, grief and devastation are left in the wake of Deaton’s insane ranting and he winces, knowing how it feels to be betrayed by someone you trust.  His more vengeful side drawing considerable satisfaction to witness it and he has to shove that aside so he can concentrate on his pack and the impact what Deaton’s revealed has had on them.

 

Peter launches himself at the druid and easily lifts him up into the air by his throat, his feet kicking as he dangles, choking.

 

“She trusted you and you betrayed her…betrayed all of us.”  Peter shakes Deaton so hard, his teeth click uncontrollably as his head wobbles dangerously back and forth.  Derek and Cora have fully shifted into their wolves and terrorize the man by clawing and biting at his thighs and torso until his pants and shirt are torn apart and blood spatters onto the polished concrete floor. 

 

Deaton squeals as Cora breathes on the front of his exposed boxer briefs, her lips curled back revealing sharp white teeth only an inch from making him a eunuch.  Snapping and snarling, she turns her head to give Stiles a wicked grin, her tongue lolling out the side of her grey muzzle as the druid flinches and bucks trying to get away.

 

“Don’t tell me to stop.”  Peter growls at him when Stiles places a gentle hand upon his arm and Stiles shakes his head in denial.

 

“I wouldn’t do that.  Deaton’s practically confessed to helping Kate destroy your family let alone interfering in your mate bond with Derek.  He deserves everything he gets.”  Stiles meets the eyes of all the Hale wolves, one after the other before returning to his enforcer’s.  “What he doesn’t deserve is a quick death, don’t let him be another Blake.”

 

Peter’s hand tightens involuntarily on Deaton’s throat, the whites of the druid’s eyes start to turn red as the little blood vessels start to burst from being strangled, before he loosens his grip.  “What were you thinking?  Stripping him of his magic…his memory…his mind.”

 

“None of that.”  Stiles can feel the grief and outrage of his pack through the bonds and it’s almost enough to bring him to his knees.  Swallowing he manages to continue in the face of the intense emotions rushing through him, theirs and his own, because this is truly beyond fucked up.  “There’s someone else that Deaton’s nearly destroyed with his ambition and insanity.”

 

“Who?”  Lydia asks softly.

 

“Rather, I should say **_‘something’_** else.” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time for judgement is it at hand and with it comes visions of the past and choices for the future for Stiles, his pack and even Scott.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in posting this last chapter, just when you think RL is ticking along nicely it likes to prove you wrong.
> 
> There are some Irish Gaelic words within this chapter. I've put the Google translations next to them in bold as it's a pet peeve when I have to scroll up or down on fics I'm reading to the notes to find out what they mean.
> 
> To be clear when Stiles communicates with the Beacon Hills nemeton its responses are within < > to indicate only he can hear it. On the whole Stiles answers aloud.

**NOW**

 

Stiles lets his mind brush over the tendrils that are still lingering there from his earlier connection to the nemeton and there’s no doubt that it’s understood at the very least the basics of what's been said and revealed.  There’s a voracious hunger entwined with the implacable determination and power that rolls through his consciousness and he’s not sure whether it’s purely a hunger for revenge or something more base and primal that wants to gnaw out the marrow of Deaton’s bones.  Either way it makes him shiver.  Still, he feels compelled to mentally ask **_‘do you wish us to deal with this monster?’_**

 

There’s no answer as such, just a roar steadily building in his head and Stiles winces, lifting his hands to cover his ears protectively.  Not that it helps much.  It’s coming.  So strong, so powerful that if he didn’t know what was coming or his own abilities he’d be scared shitless.  Getting closer and closer, for the briefest split second imaginable all sound is sucked away, drawing him into a familiar vacuum that disorientates his enhanced senses.  He can see his pack mate’s lips moving, can see them seemingly unaffected by what’s approaching – they’re frantically yelling at him, but he can’t hear a thing. 

 

It’s so close when it stops, waiting on what feels like a precipice of anticipation.  The spiking pressure in his ears painfully at the point of bursting his eardrums.

 

“I’ll take that as a no then.”  Stiles grates out under his breath, grimacing.  The waiting presence tips over that edge and the vacuum shatters – pressure releasing so forcefully he staggers.

 

“Get down.”  He growls fiercely at the others.

 

With his words laced with Alpha power, he sees them all drop to the floor, even Scott doesn’t hesitate.  Peter roughly yanks Deaton down so heavily onto his knees they crack loudly, making him whimper.  Derek tucks a wildly swaying Marcie into his side before she collapses, while Cora wraps herself around Lydia to cushion and protect her belly. 

 

Casting a field of protection around the little group, Stiles stands in front of the bubble, ready and waiting just in case.  They’d discovered that his force fields are so strong at keeping everything out that he can’t use his magic if he’s behind them too, which he’s pretty sure is a psychological issue in that he can’t bring himself to tone them down whatsoever if he’s using them to protect his pack.  It had taken a long time before Derek and Peter had been able to let him be alone outside the field without going half-feral, but practice makes perfect or more simply put they’ve really dealt with way too many assholes over the years.

 

Instantly, the ground beneath them starts to rumble and shake, violently dropping and rising in jagged waves.  A 4.5 maybe even a 5.0 at a guess, definitely a knee-trembler – this being the epicentre, it's only a fraction of what devastated Boston.  He’s relieved to see the force field smooths the worst of the jolts for his pack. 

 

Tightening his core, Stiles bounces on his toes - letting his ankle, knee and hip joints go loose to absorb the wild pitching so he can ride it out, surfing the rippling ground.  It’s a rush and he can’t stop the giddy laugh that bursts from his lips, it’s not enough to distract him from noting the cracks appearing in the polished concrete floor, splitting it apart.  Through one of them pokes out a tiny green shoot. 

 

Stiles has seen many documentaries with footage of plants growing from tiny shoots to saplings with time lapse photography.  What he’s witnessing now is similar, but without the little stop start hitches between frames, the transition from a tiny green shoot surging into a sapling is smooth.  Just as quickly it rises from a sapling to a young adult tree, stretching and reaching up higher and higher and beyond, until the nemeton fills the entire lobby space with its broad majestic trunk. 

 

Tilting his head back, Stiles looks up, half-expecting to see the destruction of the floors of the building above him.  All he can see though is the tree, its sprawling branches and what looks like the star-speckled dark of evening through the dense canopy of leaves even though he knows it’s actually about one o’clock in the afternoon.

 

With one last rocking vibration the ground stills, no longer rolling wildly beneath them.  The protective field winks out of existence when Stiles releases it, his pack always eager to be out of it as soon as they can.

 

“Stiles.”  Derek calls him over urgently, worry thickening his voice.  Concern ripples through Stiles when he sees that Marcie is lying unnaturally still on the floor, her face slack and eyes shut.  He’s very fond of the one-time Beacon Hill’s Deputy and had been happy to provide her with a job on his Dad’s recommendation when her son-in-law had been killed in Iraq a few years back and she needed to move closer to her daughter and grandchildren. 

 

Derek’s not good at meeting people or making friends, wary of overtures of friendship that are frequently tainted by the sickening scent of lust and desire or other motives that a good-looking, successful and wealthy man attracts, but Marcie’s always treated him like an annoying much younger brother and they’ve built a friendship based on teasing, sarcasm and a shared love of baking.  Derek frequently says Marcie's banana and raspberry bread is to die for which Stiles agrees with, but Derek's apple pie always has Stiles hungry for more.

 

Peter had been standoffish for a while, taking longer to get used to his mate’s friendship with the older woman and Stiles had come to the conclusion that it’s not from jealousy – much, rather from the sad faraway look that would frequently come into Peter’s eyes when he watched them together, Stiles can only imagine that he’s thinking about Talia and Laura and big sisters in general.

 

Crouching by Marcie’s side, he’s relieved to see her chest rise and fall with her steady breathing as though she’s simply fallen asleep, but when he shakes her gently she doesn’t wake.  With gentle fingers he sweeps aside the silvery blonde strands of hair that've fallen across her cheek to loop them behind her ear.  Apparently the nemeton doesn’t want everyone to witness what’s to come.  Derek kneels protectively on the other side of her, his eyes meeting Stiles’ worriedly, relief seeping into them when Stiles nods his head that she’s okay.  Derek’s naked powerful body gleams pale and beautiful under the moonlight, his clothes lost to his full shift much as Cora’s have as she stands with Lydia, their hands clutching each other’s tight.

 

Rising, he goes to each of his pack mates checking that they’re not hurt regardless of what the pack bonds and their scents are telling him, he needs to see for himself that they’re safe.

 

Peter and Derek both inhale deeply as he nuzzles their cheeks letting them scent that he’s unharmed, his lips brushing the corners of their mouths in a tender kiss until he feels a modicum of tension release from the rigid set of their shoulders.  Lydia turns her cheek into his palm on a sigh of relief as he gently strokes her rounded belly with his other hand, smiling when he feels the powerful heartbeat and lifeforce of the cub resting there.  He rubs the tip of his nose teasingly against Cora’s, delighting in the way it crinkles with fake annoyance before she huffs and nudges him away.

 

Stiles takes a deep breath as he turns to the great tree and takes a step towards it determined to find out what it’s going to do and if there’s any risk to his pack.

 

“Stiles.” Peter and Derek say his name guardedly and their caution makes him hesitate.

 

“It’s okay.”  He can’t help but smile as his stubborn wolves flash their blue eyes at him, visibly showing their disapproval.  Curious, Stiles looks around.  Yes, he’d called the nemetons to him in Boston, but he’d been half out of his mind with rage to truly appreciate what that had been like – his sole focus had been destroying those who’d dared to kidnap and hurt his pack mates.

 

A thick white mist creeps across the ground in swirling eddies, blanketing the polished concrete floor and surrounding the thick, sturdy roots of the nemeton.  Spooky much?  Deep shadows fall around them, casting all visual evidence of the very building itself out of sight, but out of the very corner of his eye Stiles can see the reality of their modern world like looking through thick paned glass.  It’s strange and disorienting to his senses as an Alpha wolf.  The scents of rich earth, fertile mulch and raw wood fill his nose and if Stiles hadn’t seen it all happen before his eyes he would believe they were standing in the middle of the Beacon Hills preserve under the light of the moon. 

 

A low rumbling vibrates from his chest up through his throat, a reassurance that calls his wolves in close.  Without hesitation his pack gathers either side of him and Stiles notes that Scott shuffles in closer too, his eyes wide and frightened. 

 

“Stiles…what is this?”  Peter asks softly, voice steady, but jaw tight.  He’s still holding Deaton in his grasp, but Stiles can feel within his bonds that his pack is very unnerved by everything that’s happened even with all that they’d seen and experienced over the years.  He can’t deny that a fucking great big tree suddenly appearing in the lobby of their building isn’t something to be unnerved about.  The sheer magnitude of power it represents is humbling.

 

Before he can say a word in reply, there’s movement on the far side of the nemeton and he instantly tenses.  A woman steps out from the shadows, dressed simply - in jeans and a plain white t-shirt - her bare feet stirring the ground fog into swirling ephemeral shapes as she cuts a path through it.  The sounds of shock that ripple throughout his pack confirms what his eyes are telling him, that the sense of recognition on seeing her is because he does, if only from photos.  Her shoulder-length dark hair and the shape of her face is Cora’s, the thicker defined eyebrows and the multi-coloured hue of her eyes she shares with Derek and that undefinable enviable sense of controlled power and self-confidence bordering on arrogance is all Peter.

 

“Mom.”  Derek breathes out the word in aching disbelief, voice high and cracking, and the noise that comes out of Cora is not so much human as that of a wounded animal.

 

“Tally-tail.”  Peter whispers so poignantly that Stiles has to blink rapidly to ease the sting.

 

Reaching out to his stunned and hurting wolves, Stiles lets his hands stroke and pat gently over any part of them he can reach – more than an Alpha comforting and reassuring his pack.  It’s that and so much more, it’s the touch of a grieving son, a devoted lover and a loyal friend who doesn’t have to guess how the Hales are feeling - he knows, not just because of the bonds, if it was his Mom…he can imagine all too well what his emotions would be.  Lydia turns to him and he can see a reflection of his own hurt in her eyes, knowing that they can’t prevent the agony that their mates are enduring, can only help them through it. 

 

A lump of raw emotion sticks in Stiles’ throat because he can feel the pain this is causing the most important people in his life and he doesn’t know why the nemeton is showing them this, because it’s not real.  She’s not real.  There’s a flatness to her image without all the dimensions of a real living person and every now and then parts of her flicker, appearing almost transparent.  He can tell she’s not a ghost though, he’s encountered a few and there’s a whole different energy around them.  This image is not real and not a ghost, it’s simply a memory.  The nemeton’s memory.

 

“Stop this.”  Stiles demands of the Nemeton, wincing when he hears its reply in his mind so loud and so clear.

 

< _Sorry, sorry, sorry.  No hurt.  Must see.  No hurt._ >

 

If the nemeton thinks they need to see this then he can’t ignore it.  The great tree has had his back enough times that Stiles isn’t going to start doubting it now no matter how much it hurts.

 

Talia Hale moves to a position right in front of where they all stand mesmerized by her appearance and gracefully kneels in front of the tree.  Her slender hands resting on the massive trunk and her position is so very reminiscent of Stiles’ own intimate first meeting with it that he almost misses hearing her begin to speak, he’s so taken aback.

 

Leaning forward until her forehead touches the bark of the nemeton, her hands spread wide either side of her head.  Talia’s voice is slightly deeper for a woman than Stiles expected, her tone steady and formal as though she’s spoken these words a hundred maybe a thousand times before.

 

“Hear my call crann beatha, as I hear yours.  I am Talia Hale, Alpha of the Hale Pack.  We are the guardians of this land which binds us together.  As we watch and protect you, you watch and protect us.  United and as one.”  **Crann beatha – tree of life.**

 

There’s not a sound for a moment as Talia sits back on her tucked under feet, hands still splayed wide against the nemeton.  Her shoulders start to shudder and without seeing her face, it’s hard to say whether it’s because she’s simply breathing harder with the intensity of whatever she’s feeling or simply crying.  Whatever the reason Stiles shifts uncomfortably witnessing something so private. 

 

“Please.”  Talia begins, her voice breaking slightly.  “Please.  I need your help.  I don’t know what’s wrong…”  Pausing, she draws in a deep ragged breath.  “That’s not right, actually I do know. **_I’m_** what’s wrong.” 

 

Her fingers curl as though to rake through the solid timber beneath her hands and yet somehow, regardless of the visible emotional turmoil she’s feeling, she’s able to rein in the urge to claw and gouge at it, her nails remaining human and not becoming the razor sharp ones of the wolf.

 

“I can hear myself saying things, see myself doing things and it feels like someone else is saying and doing them yet it’s me.”  Talia looks down at the ground she’s kneeling on for the longest time and just when Stiles thinks that’s it, she’s finished doing whatever this catharsis is that she’s doing, she starts to speak again.

 

“I’m losing my pack, I’m losing my family because of it and I can’t.  I just can’t.  Please, help me.”  Talia’s final plea sends a wave of astonishment through him from the rest of the Hales and it’s all too easy to speculate that none of them had ever seen the woman that they knew as Alpha, Mom and sister so vulnerable before.

 

There’s no warning when it starts.  The pulse of light that travels from the nemeton and throughout Talia Hale’s body has her head tipping back, eyes closed and mouth parted in a silent scream.  The warm rich glow of it deep inside her lights her up like an x-ray, her bones showing up black inside the less-opaque pink tissues of muscle and fat.  It lasts for only a moment and Talia slumps forward heavily when it ends, her sides heaving as she throws up onto the ground.  Stiles and his pack as one instinctively start to move to help her, only stopping when she straightens by herself on a deep groan, spitting on the ground before wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.  Spine stiffening to ramrod straightness and her shoulders pulling back, Talia Hale carries her Alpha spark with an innate pride that Stiles can only admire.

 

Rising unsteadily to her feet, she presses her forehead to the trunk once again.  “Thank you.”

 

Abruptly she turns to face them and while her pupils don’t visibly react to their presence as if she were actually seeing them, it still feels like she can, her penetrating gaze drifting over each and every one of them making Stiles’ scalp prickle and tingle.

 

“I won’t lose them.”  It’s a declaration, a vow of intent.  Lifting her head to look up towards the moon, Talia murmurs.  “I’m sorry Petey-pie…I’m sorry my little Der-bear, I’m going to fix this and make it right again and I know just where to start.”  Talia’s eyes glow Alpha red and her attractive features are drawn, filled with a grim determination that Stiles wouldn’t like to be on the receiving end in real life.  “I have an Emissary to see.” 

 

What he feels right at that moment from his mates through their mate bond is indescribable – a painful mix of grief, guilt and overwhelming love for the woman who had meant so much to them.  He understands their distress completely.  For so many years they’d all thought it had been Talia who had tried to keep them apart, who had decided to take Peter’s memories of Derek being his mate.  To find out that she’d been under the magical influence of her Emissary and had tried to fight it is gutting.

 

Talia starts to walk forward and Stiles freezes, unable to move out of the way when she strides determinedly right for him and doesn’t stop, passing through him like a warm breeze only to disappear as they seemingly make contact.  His wolf stirs restlessly as it often does in the presence of another Alpha which gives him pause to consider how real what they’d witnessed actually was.

 

It’s silent as they absorb what they’ve seen and he can see the rest of them looking around almost expectantly for what will happen next.  Only…there’s nothing.  Nothing but the mist ebbing and flowing like the tide around their feet and the nemeton’s roots, the rustling of leaves overhead by a breeze he can hear and see, but can’t feel against his skin. 

 

“What the hell?  Stiles what was that?”  Derek asks and his voice is shakier than he’s heard it in a long while, thick with longing.  “Was it…was it my Mom?”

 

“It’s an echo.”  Seeing their curious looks he explains further.  “The nemeton is showing us a memory, one of its own.” 

 

The nemeton’s branches sway wildly above them and the moonlight increases steadily until it’s as bright as full daylight, sunlight filtering through the leaves above them.

 

From behind Deaton another figure appears, passing through him making the druid stiffen in surprise before he starts to shiver uncontrollably.  Even more disconcerting is seeing two Deaton’s, one of them bloodied and in tatters, the other striding confidently towards the nemeton with an old-fashioned long woodcutting saw slung over his shoulder.  The echo Deaton takes a small bag from his jacket pocket as he approaches and throws it hard at the tree trunk, the force making it split apart and the contents spill out over the rough bark. 

 

From what Stiles can see it’s mainly a dark ashy powder with some type of small red berries, feathers, hair and animal bones mixed in - at least he hopes they’re animal bones.  This doesn’t look like typical druidic magic at all and it disturbs the heck out of him making him grateful that these memories are purely visual and don’t ping his other senses.  The thought of scenting or touching the innocuous bag and its contents makes him feel ill on a purely instinctual level.

 

It’s definitely bad mojo, some type of exploding hex bag he thinks and a chill races over his flesh drawing out goose bumps.  The powder spreads quickly wrapping around the base of the nemeton, encircling it entirely and Stiles can tell it’s binding the tree even before the line of powder starts to glow with a deep purple light that would be pretty if it didn’t feel so ominous.

 

“It has to be this way.”  The echo Deaton says to the nemeton which is visibly shivering.  Just as he sets the sharp-toothed blade to the purple line an audible creaking groaning noise starts and it doesn’t stop, pitching higher and higher.  It takes him a moment to realise what it is and when he does, Stiles struggles to breathe around the sudden lump in his throat – it’s the sound of the nemeton screaming.  Deaton starts to whistle happily as he drags the blade back before he vanishes and Stiles winces, thinking it’s probably just as likely that the nemeton doesn’t want a replay of being cut down and who could blame it.

 

All eyes turn to Deaton who stands there bloodied and yet still defiant.  Peter gripping his shoulder so tightly that his knuckles turn white and Deaton winces in pain.

 

_< See.  Hungry now.>_

“Yes.  We see what he’s done.”  Stiles answers the nemeton, not game to touch the rest of its statement, aware that Deaton’s glaring daggers at him so fiercely he can almost feel stinging cuts on his flesh.  Grief and regret sit heavy in his gut, the nausea of it making the moisture in his mouth pool ready to throw up.  He swallows it down with difficulty.  “I’m sorry.  Sorry we left you alone.”

 

Distantly he can hear Scott ask “Who is he talking to?”

 

“The nemeton obviously.”  Peter replies tightly, seeing the sour expression on Scott’s face.  “Still an idiot I see.”

 

“Me.”  Scott snaps.  “Sure…and he’s perfectly sane talking to a tree.  Why am I not surprised?”  Scott’s mutter of disbelief barely registers, nor does his sudden shocked yell.  “Woah…holy shit.”

 

It’s the whooshing rustle of leaves from above that has Stiles glancing up warily only to suck in a sharp breath in surprise as branches reach down towards him like loving arms, patting his hair in a fond caress.  Reaching out he gently brushes his fingers over the lush, green foliage in wonder, sad that he’d allowed the nemeton to be alone for so many years without physical contact.

 

One slender branch brushes lightly over his sternum like a giant finger and Stiles’ chest starts to heat up with a comforting warmth, glowing with a bright white light.  Tugging at the buttons on his shirt he glances down to see the image of the nemeton revealed in all its glory on his skin and for one self-indulgent moment he lets himself wallow in the near over-whelming power that he’s linked to through the nemeton.  It’s almost as good as sex with his wolves.  Almost.

 

_< Not alone.  With you.>_

 

The weight of guilt Stiles carries lightens with the rush of what he can only term as fondness from the nemeton with that thought.

 

“You bear its mark?  You.”  Deaton snaps and there’s a crazed sheen to his eyes and if he started to rabidly foam at the mouth Stiles wouldn’t be surprised.  “I tended to its needs for years.”

 

Stiles’ eyebrows lift of their own volition.  “Seriously.  Why did I get the wicked cool tatt and not you?  Is that what you’re asking?”  He shakes his head in disbelief.  “ ** _You_** let something poison it for years before **_you_** fucking cut it down and you wonder why it didn’t invite you into the club.”

 

“Not me fool, if it serves anyone it should be Scott, the True Alpha of Beacon Hills not some unworthy creature like yourself.” 

 

Peter and Derek snarl dangerously and he’s overwhelmed by the sudden urge to sink his claws knuckle-deep into Deaton and tear him apart, it’s feedback from his bonds with his volatile mates who are very sensitive to any insult directed his way.  Overtime he’s learned not to let their emotions take him over, satisfied instead with rolling his eyes at Deaton’s disdain and simply moving his fingers and thumb together in a talking motion…blah, blah, blah.

 

The nemeton shudders and with a loud whipcrack some of its roots pull out of the earth, rich black soil falling in a shower as they reach out towards the druid who starts to struggle desperately to no avail under Peter’s hand.  Wrapping around him tightly they start to pull the struggling man towards the huge tree, probing and seeking within the open wounds caused by the wolves making him scream, blood dripping to the ground.  Long slender green shoots burst from the roots, searching tendrils wrap around Deaton’s neck, squeezing in warning as he yells insults and profanities at Stiles with increasing venom which break off abruptly with a strangled gurgle.

 

 _< Quiet croi duhb.>   _ **Croi duhb – black heart.**

 

Scott takes a wary step back, trying to distance himself from the Deaton crazy train, holding his hands up in supplication.  Maybe his instincts aren’t as off as Stiles had thought.

 

_< Stiles good.  Stiles friend.>_

 

Unhesitatingly, the nemeton broadcasts his approval and affection for Stiles long and loud almost making him blush, it’s like having his very own cheer squad at the back of his head.  He thinks of when he was in school, all the uncertainty and doubt – so alienated from his peers and constantly feeling on the outside, he could’ve done with this type of boost to his self-esteem back then.  Touched despite himself Stiles says, “This unworthy creature knows that the nemeton serves no one.  We’re friends.”

 

 _< Friends.>  _The nemeton confirms before demanding plaintively.  _ <Me eat now.  Hungry.>_

 

It sounds like a child, reminding Stiles that this nemeton is still very young.  If what he suspects is the case he’s not sure he dare ask, but he does anyway.  “What do you want to eat?”

 

Not much seems to surprise Peter, so Stiles relishes the shocked understanding that briefly crosses his much-loved face before a grim look of satisfaction sharpens his features when the great tree lifts Deaton into the air and waves him back and forth so vigorously that the druid looks like he’s going to pass out or throw up.

 

“You can’t do that.”  Scott yells in horrified understanding.  Stiles can’t believe it, of all times for Scott to suddenly be sensitive to something not affecting him directly or literally slapping him in the face.

 

Abruptly, the ground starts to shake again, even more violently. 

 

“What’s happening?”  Stiles asks the nemeton.

 

 _< The ceannaire na clan comes.>    _ **Ceannaire na clan - leader of the clan.**

 

Stiles staggers barely holding himself upright as more shoots appear in a new set of cracks and fractures, growing into even bigger trees.  It’s quicker than the arrival of the Beacon Hills nemeton, more practiced Stiles would say.  One after the other they grow until a grove of massive trees has formed around them completely, there’s barely any light penetrating the dense canopies and what he can see indicates it’s no longer daylight, but twilight.  There’s a heavy weight in the atmosphere - an almost oppressive sense of intelligence, age and power that nearly drives him to his knees.

 

Gritting his teeth he shakes it off and with a quick glance around, he’s relieved to see that his pack mates have learned from the first time and all gone to ground.  Peter and Cora surrounding Lydia protectively while Derek’s crouched near him, one hand wrapped around Stiles’ ankle.  He can see Deaton and Scott with equally horrified expressions, not that he can blame them when a honking great big tree decides that you’re dinner.  His heart starts to thump hard in his chest as he realises he can’t see Marcie.  Frantically, Stiles scans the ground hoping that she’s simply hidden by the thick white mist and not fallen into one of the large cracks that have appeared.

 

“Stiles.”  Derek says faintly, there’s something in his tone that has the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.  Letting his hand drop to gently clasp his mate’s shoulder, he follows Derek’s gaze to where Marcie stands in the deep shadows of the biggest tree in the newly-formed grove.  Her usually crisp white shirt is wrinkled and stained, shadows shifting over it at her throat, her slim grey business skirt is torn at the hem.  If the rumpled appearance of a woman who is normally religiously immaculate in her dress everyday didn’t unsettle him then her motionless form would.  There’s a stillness to her that’s eerie.

 

Stiles swallows audibly, because it’s like one of those horror films where someone’s blatantly, obviously been taken over by something so very other that it’s apparent simply in the way they hold themselves.  Marcie’s head which had been hanging down, suddenly tilts sharply to one side listening, drawing a gasp from Lydia.  Slender vines bracelet her wrists before wrapping around her arms and encircling her neck, a living necklace.  Living, because what he’d thought was a trick of light and shadow is actually the vines slithering and coiling loosely on her collarbones.  Threaded through the strands of her silvering blonde hair are delicate white flowers forming a crown and the contents of Stiles’ stomach lurches wildly when he sees that the thin green tendrils from the flowers wrap around the outer shell of her ears and have slid inside.

 

“Hey Marcie, you okay over there being all creepy and shit?”

 

Her eyes snap open and he flinches, startled.  Their normal faded denim blue colour is gone, they’re filled with an unearthly green light.  The penetrating gaze searches them and it’s easy to see that the intelligence that lurks behind those eyes does not belong to Marcie.

 

The silence is a waiting one.  There’s an expectation in those vivid green eyes and suddenly Stiles knows exactly what to do.

 

“I hear your call crann beatha.  I am Mieczyslaw Stilinski, Alpha of the Hale Pack.  We are the guardians of this land which binds us together.  As we watch and protect you, you watch and protect us.  United and as one.”

 

“United and as one.”  The ceannaire of the nemetons nods its head regally, a deeper intonation to her voice than he’s used to.  “Well met Alpha Mieczyslaw Stilinski of the Hale Pack.”

 

Somehow, the formal archaic nature of the nemeton’s speech isn’t strange just the instrument that it chooses to speak through – a middle aged receptionist ex-deputy that he’s known since he was a teen.

 

“The craobhan beatha thank you for your aid in bringing this corruption to face justice.”  **Craobhan beatha - trees of life.**

 

It didn’t feel strange to follow his instinct to bow his head in acknowledgement and his pack follows his lead, even Scott seems to recognise that this is an entity that’s worthy of respect and does the same.  That said-

 

“Is Marcie okay?”  Stiles gestures towards the possessed woman’s body.  “Because possessing her dude…rude much.”

 

Visibly stiffening at the reprimand, the ceannaire’s eyes darken and narrow dangerously, but Stiles stands his ground aware of his wolves moving to stand either side of him.  “I’m responsible for her.”

 

It seems to consider that for a moment, the deep emerald shine of its eyes lightens to a shade closer to jade and the heavy threatening atmosphere evaporates.

 

“There was no other way to communicate with you, you would not hear me as you have already been claimed by one of the craobhan beatha.”  Peter and Derek growl as snottily at that statement as two pissed off territorial werewolf mates can.  Stiles looks down at his still parted shirt at the faintly glowing tree on his chest and brushes his fingers over it lightly.  “She is unharmed and sleeping.  She will not remember this in anyway after.”

 

Stiles feels the tension in Derek’s shoulder, still under his hand, ease slightly.  That Marcie’s not going to be hurt or injured in anyway is a relief because as strong as he is the unlimited well of natural power that he can sense emanating from these trees would have been hard to fight to get her back – not impossible, but definitely not easy. 

 

“Justice.”  Deaton manages to choke out, tugging at the strangling roots at his throat.  “Scott, I’ll get no justice here.” Scott’s eyes dart back and forth between Marcie, Stiles and where the Beacon Hill’s nemeton binds the druid to it with thick ropey cords.

 

“What are you going to do to him?”  Scott asks, his voice quivering when the ceannaire’s eerie green eyes fix upon him.  “You’re not going to eat him, right?”

 

“Who are you little wolf to question me?”

 

Scott puffs out his chest.  “I’m Scott McCall, Alpha of the McCall Pack and the True Alpha.”

 

It laughs rich and clear. 

 

“True Alpha, is that what you are?”  The genuine amusement in the resonant voice is clear and Stiles can see Scott’s certainty falter in the face of it.  “There are no True Alpha’s little wolf, only stubborn ones.  So stubborn and sure that they are right and that their path is the only one they refuse to see any other way or accept guidance.”  The nemeton leader scrutinises Scott from head to toe making him shift uncomfortably.  “It leaves them lacking.”

 

Scott’s chin goes up and his uneven jaw bunches as he grits his teeth.  “I’m not lacking anything.”  He snaps, whirling to face Stiles.  “You’re seriously going to let a bunch of trees determine what happens to Deaton.”

 

“Yes I am.  Everything that’s happened to us, the Hales and Beacon Hills starts with Deaton.”

 

Scott huffs out a harsh breath.  “I get that Deaton needs to be accountable-“  He holds up his hand when Stiles begins to argue.  “-to be punished.  Not just for what he’s done to me, for the original Hale Pack even, but I draw the line at letting him be eaten by a tree for cutting it down.  It’s just a tree, Stiles.”

 

Stiles stares, breathless at Scott’s insensitivity.  It’s clear from the dark glower that the ceannaire is casting in the ‘True Alpha’s’ direction that it’s not happy with being dismissed or his shitty attitude either. 

 

“You’re unbelievable.  It’s called attempted murder Scott.  Deaton tried to maim, if not kill outright, a living, sentient being all for his own gain.  It’s their right to render judgement.”

 

“Are you a good man, a just man?”  The nemeton leader asks Scott.

 

“Of course I am.  In my pack we don’t kill.”  Scott flicks a meaningful look towards Stiles which isn’t too hard to interpret.  “Unlike others we value life.”

 

“Just not **_all_** life.”  Derek frowns, rising to his feet from where he’s been crouching next to Stiles.  His hand slips from his wolf’s shoulder to the centre of Derek’s tattooed back, the smooth skin under his fingertips never failing to electrify him and he sternly tells himself to focus.

 

Scott can’t have failed to see the way the ceannaire frowns forbiddingly at him and yet he still insists on rising higher and higher on the nemeton’s shit list.  “I mean it’s just innocent lives are way more important.”

 

“Are you saying that the leanbh of my clan is not an innocent?”  **leanbh – baby/child**

 

If a tree can growl like a wolf the ceannaire is doing a hell of a job of it, the very ground vibrating under their feet with its fury.  Scott’s face flushes red and a strong ammonia scent pours off him that Stiles has long associated with angry frustration, it makes his nose twitch and eyes burn. 

 

“How come it didn’t track down Deaton before and get its justice?  If he’s guilty-“  Scott holds his arms out turning in a circle indicating the trees that surround him in the middle of a downtown building.  “-it could’ve come for him anytime, but no it waits until right now.”

 

“As I said being so young and innocent our leanbh has not learned yet how to differentiate between you.” 

 

“What?”  Scott pulls a confused face.

 

“In other words we, as in humans, all look alike to baby nemetons.”  Stiles pipes in, looking towards the great tree with sympathy.  “It couldn’t be sure that he was the right one, the right human, not that it wanted to get too close to its abuser anyway so our nemy hid away for a long time.”  Peter silently mouths ‘nemy’ at him and Stiles smirks as he shrugs his shoulders in reply, drawing out an eyeroll of such epic shade from his mate that Stiles can barely hold back a snort of laughter.

 

“We look alike.”  Scott repeats harshly as he stares at Deaton before turning on Stiles bitterly.  “It’s always the same isn’t it?  Whenever, I’m around you things get fucked up and yet you end up landing on your feet no matter who else gets hurt.”

 

Stiles holds his hands up as his pack surges, claws extended, and the nemetons groan as their roots shift and their timbers crack restlessly.  “It’s okay.  Really.  There’s really nothing he can say that can hurt me anymore…get my goat maybe, but that’s about it and he can have his opinion, just cause he’s wrong doesn’t mean he can’t have it though.”

 

“Don’t patronise me Stiles.  You think you’re a better Alpha than me, don’t you?”  Scott seethes his eyes turning blood red, features changing into his Beta shift and Stiles doesn’t bother to try and stop himself from answering the challenge.  The silvery tinge to his vision, hot ache to his gums and the diamond hard claws are all indicators that he’s shifted into his own version of the Beta shift – Wolf Mage style – as he launches himself at this stubborn irritant from his past.  It’s all too easy to bring Scott to his knees, one hand holding him by the throat and the other his forearm of his dominant hand.  Scott lashes out with his free hand catching Stiles on the face and he can feel the blood drip along his jaw and off his chin to splash on the upturned face of his former best friend.

 

Scott looks surprised and then horrified as the droplets spatter across his forehead and cheeks, his features slipping back to human as Stiles hauls him to his feet, toe to toe.  Their faces only inches apart.

 

“I know I’m a better Alpha than you.”

 

“Stiles.”  Scott says faintly, watching in awe as Stiles’ skin knits together before his eyes, healing him almost instantly and leaving his cheek smooth and unmarked.  “The wounds from an Alpha don’t heal instantly.”

 

“I’m so much more, remember.”  Stiles says quietly, aware that his mates are sending waves of pissed off attitude for deliberately leaving himself open to take the hit just to prove a point.

 

Scott’s mouth curls down at the corners as he says almost despairingly.  “Yes you are, you could do so much good and you choose not to.”

 

“That is not true little wolf.  Good or bad is subjective.  I will show you what would have happened if Alpha Stilinski had not acted.”  The ceannaire extends her right hand and the vines and tendrils coiled around it lash outwards in a lasso that wraps around Scott so quick and unexpectedly that no one has a chance to react, not even Scott as he’s dragged towards her.  Staring into his face, it leans in so close that Stiles almost thinks Scott’s going to end up kissing Marcie, which is wrong on so many levels the very least him being a voyeur to it, but instead it draws in a deep breath and when it blows outwards there are the tiniest little spores within that carry across to Scott’s mouth and nose.

 

Struggling he tries to hold his breath, but eventually he has to give in and suck in a gasping breath.  Scott’s eyes flash red before turning a pale green as he inhales them and his face slackens, eyes fluttering closed.  It looks restful until a frown appears on his brow, which quickly morphs into one agonized cry after the other.  Flinching and writhing, tears stream down his face, gasping hicupping breaths as his heart races frantically.  Whatever, Scott’s seeing in his head is the stuff of nightmares and Stiles doesn’t even want to think about what could’ve happened to all of them if things had turned out so much worse than they had.

 

As soon as it starts it seems to be over and the ceannaire releases Scott from its grasp and he collapses to the ground panting and heaving raggedly.  When he finally looks up tears stream down his cheeks and he flinches away from Stiles on seeing him, holding his belly protectively.

 

“My Mom he would’ve…the things he did to her.  If you hadn’t-“  Scott shakes his head trying to rid it of the nightmares he’s witnessed.  “Ally was dead, Isaac gone and you-“  Stiles shivers at the frightened look that Scott gives him as though he were the worst kind of boogeyman.  “-you were possessed.”

 

Icy fingers trace down Stiles’ spine, recalling the vicious threats and spite of the evil that had once resided in the nemeton as it had been forced out of the great tree by blood and magic.  **_“Too bad the wolf has its claws in you now, together we would have made chaos reign.”_**

 

Scott turns towards Deaton still entangled in the roots and vines of the Beacon Hills nemeton.  “And you-“  Scott staggers to his feet.  “-you were so certain that we were right you manoeuvred us onto the Were Council to start the new order and revealed what we are to the rest of the world.”  His voice shakes.  “It was a blood bath.”

 

Stiles and his pack shift uneasily at that threat.  There’s a reason the supernatural races haven’t revealed themselves to the general public even though they’re more powerful, it’s all in the numbers.  There’s simply way too many humans, if only 5% of the human race decided hunting and killing supernaturals was better than treaties and negotiations, they would be overrun.

 

“Scott.  We could make it work, you and I together.”  Deaton pleads in a strangled, raw voice.  “Help me.”

 

Scott stares at him for the longest time.

 

“Can’t you see?”  He says eventually, voice unnaturally controlled.  “This is the balance at work, you paying for all the things you’ve done.  The perfect balance.”  Scott turns away, the proud almost rapturous look that crosses Deaton’s features right then too much to witness even for Stiles and he looks towards his mates getting comfort from their bond and the understanding in their eyes.   

 

“No Scott, Scott-“

 

Deaton calls his name desperately as the nemeton’s roots, of all sizes, continue to slither and writhe as they wrap him up, binding him tightly to only expose his head to view, before sliding inexorably up his nose and into his ears and into his mouth.  Deaton abruptly stops mid-scream, his eyes blank of feeling or thought and Stiles wants to turn away so badly, but he can’t and nor does any of his pack.  Pale and grim-faced, it’s understood that the sentence has been passed and what they stand witness to is the execution.

 

The tree holds Deaton aloft by the very roots themselves which pulse and throb like a heartbeat as they slowly start to squeeze, a high whistle passes through the druid’s lips as the air is driven out of his lungs.  There’s a sickening crunch of bone as it wrings him out like wet washing to be hung on the line.  The cracking and crunching noises swiftly becoming soft and squelchy, blood seeps out from between the coiling tendrils of the nemeton and Stiles can feel its satisfaction as its hunger is appeased by blood and magic.  The great tree absorbing the corrupt power into itself, shivering as it cleanses it until it’s nothing but pure energy.  It’s roots punch into the earth taking Deaton’s remains away and Stiles has to ruthlessly stomp down the macabre impulse to giggle at the idea of the nemeton being fed ‘blood and bone’ as though it was a rose bush.

 

Stiles tugs on the bonds to his pack.  He’s soon surrounded and throws his arms around his wolves and his Emissary trying to gather each and every one of them in close.  There’s satisfaction and grief in equal measure pulsing through the bonds, grief not for the man himself rather for what he could and should have been to Talia and the Hale Pack and for that reason Stiles pays particular attention to Lydia who seems to be the most affected.  Dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her fingertips like girls do when they don’t want to smudge their make-up, he cups her face in his hands and kisses her softly on the lips out of pure affection. 

 

“I’m okay.  Really.”  She emphasises when he raises one eyebrow doubtfully.  “I just don’t understand how he could’ve betrayed her like that.  After my mate bond, the one I have as Emissary to all of you is beyond any other relationship I’ve ever had.”  Lydia shrugs helplessly and he doesn’t need to be an Alpha to understand what she’s trying to say.

 

“I don’t get it either.”  Stiles replies, letting his hands fall to his sides only to have familiar fingers entwine with his, Peter on his left and Derek on his right.  He clutches them tight, never wanting to let go, contentment welling from deep within him when they squeeze back reassuringly. 

 

“Alpha Stilinski.”  The ceannaire addresses him quietly from the shadows, slowly approaching them.  “We must leave now.  We are in your debt and as such the crann beatha will always answer your call should you have need.  We would ask for a favour before we depart.”

 

“A favour?”  Stiles questions.  “Would this have to do with my favourite nemy and how it’s not just a tree of life now?”

 

For a split second the ceannaire’s expression is open with surprise before shutting down again and Stiles can’t help give a little triumphant mental fist pump that he’d guessed correctly.  “It is my error that I’ve misjudged your knowledge and understanding of my clan, Alpha Stilinski, one that you can be assured I will not make again.  Our ‘nemy’, as you put it, after everything it has endured and through no fault of its own is now a tree of life AND death.  It will require periodic feeding to maintain its strength which we can not provide from a distance.”

 

“Feeding?  As in blood or magic…both?”  Stiles asks curiously.

 

“It has tasted both and they are now a requirement for its future growth and survival, however, it is not necessary to provide them together.” 

 

Stiles meets the eyes of his left and right hands, silently asking for their opinion.  “"There’s a few people I could suggest.”  Peter can’t hide the shark-like grin that stretches his mouth wide.  “Me too.”  Derek adds with a dour glare.

 

"And like I always say, leave no evidence behind."  Peter's eyes gleam wickedly.

 

Stiles nods in agreement, wondering how this has suddenly become so very 'little shop of horrors'. 

 

"I don’t think it’ll be a problem.”  Stiles declares to the ceannaire, its eyes glow a brilliant clover green as it bows its head in acknowledgement of their agreement.

 

_< Stiles friend to Nemy?>_

 

The Beacon Hills nemeton has been rather quiet during the discussions with its clan leader and Stiles can feel the hesitancy with which it’s asked the question, the uncertainty of a child not sure of its acceptance.  With quick steps he walks to the trunk and wraps his arms around as far as he can stretch and lets his forehead brush against its textured bark.

 

“Always Nemy, always.”  A shudder from the very depths of Nemy followed by a wave of relief tells Stiles how much the reassurance means.  From above all the nemeton’s shake their upper branches and raining down upon Stiles and his pack are the tiniest white buds blanketing the ground, covering the brutal reality of the blood stained earth.  It falls like snow upon their shoulders and hair and with wonder they turn their faces upwards receiving the softest brush of petals against their cheeks and lips like kisses.

 

“Farewell Alpha Stilinski.”  Within the space of a couple of heartbeats, all the nemetons recede back into the ground, the concrete flooring piecing itself back together to an as new smooth unmarked finish.  The white mist has evaporated and as Stiles looks around the lobby he can’t see any evidence of the nemetons visit.

 

“What in almighty heck has happened to me?”  Marcie stands with hands on hips looking down at her rather bedraggled skirt and blouse.  The fine lines at the corner of her eyes deepen with her stern no-nonsense look as she surveys the group before her.  “And you two need to get some clothes on.”

 

It takes a moment for Stiles to realise she’s talking about Derek and Cora who are both standing there unashamedly naked. Chuckling, the tension abruptly released, he realises that he’s been so caught up with everything that’s taken place it hadn’t really pinged on his consciousness that they were.  With the barest effort of will he chooses their favourite sweatpants and t-shirts and dresses them.  Cora pouts.

 

Unphased, Marcie looks them up and down as she picks up her shotgun, checks the chamber ensuring the barrel is pointed away from anyone nearby.  “That’s better.”  She nods in satisfaction.  “Now tell me why do I have an acorn?”

 

Opening her fist she holds it up in her palm and Stiles looks at Lydia who lifts her eyebrows, unwillingly impressed.  That the ceannaire has gifted it to its host is definitely a sign of favour or apology, maybe both, the acorn of a nemeton is imbued with magics that draw positive energies to it and those around it including good health and fortune.

 

“It’s a gift.”  Stiles nods his head emphatically, trying to convey how serious he is.  “It’s important Marcie, it will bring you good luck.  Whatever you do, don’t lose it.”

 

Scrutinising his face, she slowly nods her head, her fingers curl around the acorn in a secure grip.

 

Stiles hasn’t been ignoring Scott on purpose, he just kinda figured the guy needed a bit of alone time to deal with watching his Emissary and mentor be eaten by a big-ass mystical tree like he was a fucking burrito.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Scott slumped over, pressing his face into his hands and Stiles struggles with the impulse to go to him, but there’s been so much water under the bridge and…he finds himself next to the other man anyway and tentatively puts his hand on Scott’s shoulder.  It’s as much as he can allow himself and when he feels the shudder that goes through Scott’s body at his touch, he quickly draws it back.

 

“Go home Scott.”  Stiles says sternly.  He’s not going to offer any apologies or trite sympathies not when Deaton helped facilitate the destruction of the original Hale Pack.  Deaton messed with the wrong entities and got what he deserved.  Scott lifts up his head and Stiles can see the red rimmed eyes and the gentle quiver of his lower lip, resignation in every line of his body. 

 

“Go home.”  He repeats.  “And get your Mom, your passports and pack a few things and get to Sacramento airport.  Marcie can you please arrange for the jet to be available there with a flight plan for Scott and Melissa McCall to Paris.”

 

Marcie straightens her shoulders, threading a rock-steady hand through her hair and tugs the wilting blossoms out.  “Yes sir.” 

 

“Once you’ve done that, how about you head home early.  Spend some time with your daughter before the grandkids are home from school.”  Marcie’s smile is dazzling and Stiles returns it, before she walks to her desk and is quickly on the phone.  She’s taken all their woo-woo supernatural shit in her stride and that raise plus a big bonus is definitely happening.

 

“Paris?”  Scott murmurs, connecting the dots.  “Ally and Isaac are in France…the Argent estate.”  He nods his head to himself and draws himself up straight.  “You’ve been keeping tabs on us?”  Suspicion narrows his eyes.

 

That fuels Stiles’ ire and he spits out.  “To be honest Scott I’ve not kept track of you or your pack because I simply don’t care.  What I do know though is how it feels to be rejected by you and it seems pretty obvious to me that the only other place that would feel like home to Ally is in France.  You’re probably lucky that Chris hasn’t come after you, but maybe that’s Ally protecting you still even after you threw her away solely on the word of your Emissary.” 

 

“That’s pretty much it.”  Lydia confirms.

 

“That’s not fair.”  Scott growls out.  “You heard Deaton he influenced me and manipulated me to do things.”

 

“That’s not what I heard.”  Cora spits out, glaring at him.

 

Stiles laughs bitterly.  “He didn’t have to manipulate you Scott, you were already well on-board Deaton’s crazy train without him having to do a single thing.”

 

“I was trying to protect them.” 

 

“Protect them huh.  So what do you call what you did to me then?

 

“I…”  Scott starts to speak, his voice catching, before clearing it roughly.  “I don’t think we’ll ever agree on certain things Stiles, but I’m sorry for what I did to you, how I treated you.  You were my best friend and you deserved better than that, that I would listen to someone else before I even talked to you about what I was thinking…what I was afraid of…that was pretty crappy.”

 

Stiles swallows, throat tight.  He’d never thought he would hear an apology from Scott, it’s not perfect and it doesn’t mention a hell of a lot of the other shit that went down, still there’s nothing he can really say and even if he did have the words would he really want to drag this out.  Scott is Scott, implacable and unchanging, and Stiles is who he is and happy to be that person, there’s no common ground between them anymore apart from shared history and maybe it’s better that way.  He gives a non-committal tilt of his chin.

 

“Thank you for this.  The flights and everything, I’ll pay you back.”  Scott says with the same earnestness that Stiles remembers.  “Maybe we can meet up again and talk properly.  With our territories so close it would make sense to create a formal alliance-“  His eyes dart around, taking in the opulent surroundings.  “-share resources.  Maybe even be co-Alphas, like how Jackson and I were co-captains.”

 

Stiles instantly sees red, because how dare he.  He shoves his sparking forefinger and thumb in a pincer shape under Scott’s nose and growls.  “Don’t say another word Scott because you’re this close to finding out how Boston went down for those hunters in vivid fucking HD.”   

 

“Ow.”  Scott whines as a spark flies off of Stiles’ fingertip and hits him on the end of his nose, he rubs it soothingly, his eyes big and so wounded.  Stiles is just so damned mad he can’t control himself, Scott's not ever going to change.

 

“I don’t want your money and I sure as hell don’t want someone I can’t trust as co-Alpha, ally or so-called friend and don’t you ever forget you’re living in our territory with our permission which can easily be revoked if you piss me off enough.”  Stiles draws in a couple of deep breaths to steady himself. 

 

“We’ll let Chris know when you’re coming in and as long as Ally and Isaac still want to see you, I’m sure he’ll arrange to pick you up or at the very least your Mom.  I doubt they’d stop her from seeing her grandchild.” 

 

Scott’s lips twist in bitter resignation and he nods in acceptance.  

 

“I'm sending you back to Beacon Hills.”  Stiles doesn't bother explaining that it's not by car and it will be pretty damn instant via the telluric current.

 

“Okay, thanks.”  Scott replies subdued.  “Oh and Stiles...congratulations too.”

 

Puzzled Stiles pauses.  “For what?” 

 

“The baby.”  Scott blushes in confusion.  “It’s yours right?  Because it can’t be-” Scott’s eyes flick towards Peter.  Oh, right.  He had kissed Lydia on the lips, chaste though it was, no wonder Scott thinks they’re together.

 

“Ours.”  Stiles meets Lydia and Peter’s eyes and returns their smiles.  “The baby’s ours.”  There would be more he hoped when each of them were ready if ever, Cora and Derek were both ambivalent at the moment, while Lydia seemed content in her role purely as a surrogate this time for Peter.  While Peter is the father, the way the born wolves describe the raising of children in a pack it seemed that the whole pack would all be active in parenting and Stiles couldn’t wait.  The wolves were nearly delirious with joy anticipating the arrival of a cub into the pack including his own vaguely ridiculous Alpha wolf who kept puffing up with pride every time he was with his happy, contented and growing pack.

 

The very rare Magus codex he’d been translating yesterday had seemed to indicate that within it there’s a ritual that could allow a man to be impregnated which had sent his imagination into overdrive imagining himself pregnant to Derek or Peter, or one of them carrying his child, either way it makes the Alpha wolf inside him howl.  If it’s real it would be another option they had.  It might even be something his Dad and Jordan would be interested in, seeing as they’d been together for seven years now and it’s pretty clear that Jordan loves kids and is making cow’s eyes at Lydia’s belly.

 

“Ok.”  The groove between Scott’s eyebrows tells Stiles that he’s thinking on it, but doesn’t entirely get it, not that Stiles is going to enlighten him.  

 

Before the other man can even blink or say a farewell, Stiles snaps his fingers and Scott disappears and he can feel the moment he arrives back in his lounge room in Beacon Hills, the nemeton communicating with him through their connection.

 

The tension in the pack goes down a number of notches and he can feel himself droop wearily. 

 

Lydia places her hand on his bicep, fingers curling around the muscle.  A claim and a comfort. 

 

“Come on Alpha.  You need your pack and your pack needs you.”

 

 

The glass is cool to the touch, easing the lingering sting in his fingertips from overusing his power.  Stiles lets his forehead rest against the floor to ceiling window as he looks out to sea because if he tilts it just so he’s looking straight down the sheer cliff face to the crashing waves at its base and it feels like he’s falling.

 

Looking down reminds him forcibly of when Scott cast him away, that he’d fallen so far, so deep down a hole that there would be no coming back up.  That he would suffocate all alone in the dark had seemed inevitable.  The sun setting on the far horizon flashes a brilliant golden light as it descends, the reflection of the room behind him catching his eye in the glass.  Behind him on the large bed they share on those occasions when they need to come together rather than separate to their actual bedrooms, are the reasons he didn’t stay down in that bleak hole, the ones that pulled him back into the sunlight. 

 

His pack.

 

Turning to see them all properly, he can’t believe he’s not been struck blind yet by the sheer beauty of his pack before him.  He doesn’t think it’s something he will ever get used to, but he has a whole lifetime to try and it makes him smile, happy and content.  Lydia is propped up slightly by a mound of pillows and cushions, the softest blankets and throw rugs are close at hand in case she feels cold even though the house keeps a perfect moderate temperature automatically.  Cora is curved over her protectively, Lydia’s hand stroking down the long line of her spine to curve around the cheek of her perfect ass. 

 

The kisses they exchange are long and languid, Lydia sighing softly and Cora’s low rumble of pleasure almost a purr. Her hand confidently cups Lydia’s pale bare breast, pinching her pink nipple between thumb and forefinger until it’s rosy red, before tracing delicate patterns over the light spattering of freckles on her chest.  It’s done with such an effortless lazy sensuality that it sends a flicker of heat through Stiles’ groin and his gaze darting across to the sculpted lines of muscle and what seems miles of naked skin of his own mates. 

 

They lay on either side of Lydia, both with their ears pressed against her rounded belly and Stiles grins at the sappy looks they’re both sporting.  His fierce wolves…hah.  The love he feels for them swirls through him and out, rushing through the bonds like a tsunami and what he receives back leaves him so weak-kneed and trembling that he has to lean back against the window or fall to the floor. 

 

Peter presses a gentle kiss to Lydia’s tummy before rolling onto his back and pushing himself up into a sitting position.  Derek props his head on his hand.  Their eyes brilliantly blue as they look him over, from head to toe and he can see the visible signs of their arousal in the rising heft of their cocks.  His own twitches and swells with want.  Wanting to pin them down and crawl all over them, but he forces himself to wait.  The tension almost unbearable, so used to the way they lose patience and pick him up and carry him off to be thoroughly debauched.  Not that he hasn’t picked either of them up and carried them away himself, but there’s something that really pushes his buttons in the focused, desperate way his wolves want him. 

 

That they’re not moving has him on edge, has his cock hardening to the point of pain with anticipation.  “What are you doing?  What are you waiting for?” 

 

“Acclimatizing.”  Peter grins wickedly at him snapping the cap back on the tube of lube, the joke never getting old, as he spreads his legs and traces a long finger between the crack of his ass cheeks making it glisten wetly.

 

“We’re accustoming ourselves to seeing you naked.”  Derek licks his lips hungrily, reaching down to tug on his balls and a shiver goes through Stiles at witnessing how he affects them. 

 

Crossing his arms, Stiles manages to rasp out.  “How’s that going for you?”

 

Even though they move so fast, Stiles knows that he could evade them easily if he wanted to, not that he does, and he quickly finds himself swept up into their arms.  Derek’s mouth on his in a kiss so passionate and deep that his heart knocks out a wild rhythm against his breastbone and Peter’s hand on his rock hard cock stroking it in a firm warm grip, fingers still slick with lube, has his balls lifting high and tight already. 

 

Peter leans in and whispers in his ear “Not too well, I think we’ll have to keep working on it.”

 

Stiles can only moan his agreement.  When they carry him to the bed he’s only dimly aware of Lydia and Cora writhing together next to them, lost in their own ecstasy as he kneels on shaky legs ready to mount his mate, but when his orgasm threatens to crash through his body and he grips Peter’s hips tighter and pistons into his ass harder he can feel their eyes upon him and his cock throbs.  Trying to hold on, to make it last is near impossible with his beautiful wolves and the sweet pressure surrounding his cock.  

 

Stiles burns hotter and brighter as he watches Derek fuck Peter’s mouth almost brutally, giving their mate exactly what he wants and needs.  The smooth skin of Peter’s broad back is slick with sweat, muscles bunching and flexing as he rocks back and forth between them demanding to be penetrated as deeply as possible at both ends.  It’s too good, too much.  Head tipping back, Stiles’ wailing cry of pleasure turns into the howl of a wolf.  A howl that’s swiftly followed by the others one after the other including a banshee-like scream.  Sated, he collapses into the waiting arms that surround him, the hands that stroke him gently and the lips that kiss him softly knowing that no matter what he’s always welcome…always loved.

 

By his mates.

 

By his pack.


End file.
